Darkness
by NaomiP
Summary: Luka's time in The Congo becomes a nightmare. Can Carter and Gillian help him survive? Or will he find the strength elsewhere? Rating for violence and mature and disturbing situations. Complete in 28 chapters. Preceeds 'Into the Light.'
1. Chapter 1

[_WARNING:_ This fic has been described as "dark and disturbing." It contains considerable violence, including some sexual violence, and graphic descriptions of very unpleasant situations. A lot of Really Bad Stuff happens to our favorite Croatian doctor in the story. If you think you will be bothered by this kind of content, please do _NOT_ read the story, and then come back later and complain to me about it, ok?]  
  
It is a restaging of "The Lost." I always thought the story, particularly the resolution, was pretty unbelievable. (They thought he was a priest? Yeah, right.) So I rewrote it. It starts out pretty much as in the aired episode, (it picks up about a third of the way in, from Luka's Point-of-View ... you're clever, you'll figure it out.) then veers off into something entirely different.]  
  
[I, incidently, as the disclaimers tend to say, do not own ER or anything connected with it. I do, however, own this story.]

**ADDED A/N: (7/15/04): I've made a few additional edits to this, mostly the first few chapters. The French dialogue in the Matenda scenes is now actually in French ... with some additional editing so that those of us who DON'T speak French will still get what's going on. Thanks D n' D for your help!**

-----------  
  
He was dimly aware of hands pulling him roughly to his feet. The hard metal of a gun barrel jabbing into his ribs. He was shoved forward towards the steps. "A l'interieur!"  
  
Dizzy from the blow, and the fever, Luka stumbled blindly up the steps and into the clinic.  
  
His clinic, but all too clearly no longer his. Even through his blurred vision it was obvious that the place had already been ransacked. The radio smashed, valuable drugs (worth more than their weight in gold in this remote spot), scattered carelessly across the floor and trampled.  
  
The beds were all empty of patients but, on the floor sat several men, guarded by yet another Mai Mai soldier with yet another gun.  
  
"Assieds toi!" barked the guard who'd brought him inside; giving him another shove and motioning with his rifle towards the floor. Luka was only too glad to obey; sitting was good. He was aware, after a moment, that Patrique, Chance and Sakina had also come inside and were now sitting beside him.  
  
Luka cautiously felt his aching jaw. It was tender and sore, and bleeding slightly both inside and out, but nothing seemed to be broken. The IV had been ripped from his arm when he fell, and his arm too was bleeding slightly. Still, Luka knew that if hadn't already been so ill, he would have shaken off the effects of such a blow with ease. It was the fever and the heat that made him so weak; so faint. Luka put his head down on his knees and tried to take slow, deep breaths.  
  
"Are you ok, Dr. Luka?" asked Patrique, speaking to him in English.  
  
"Yes, just a little dizzy," Luka started to say, then the guard was there, waving his gun in their faces and shouting at them to shut up. "T'a geule!"  
  
-----  
  
Time seemed to pass very slowly. A few more prisoners, Luka had no idea where they were from, were brought inside. After perhaps an hour, another soldier came in, carrying a bucket and a small pot. In front of each prisoner he put a cup of water and, directly on the wooden floor, a scoop of rice. "Bouffe, vite!"  
  
Luka couldn't help thinking, irritably, that it wouldn't _hurt_ them in the least to ask nicely, or at least not shout every order. And did they really expect him to eat? But he said aloud, to Patrique, still in English, "They're feeding us anyway. That's a good sign." And again, he was interupted by the guard, waving his gun more threateningly and shouting, warning them again to be quiet. "J'ai dit t'as geule! Ne parle pas!" He nudged Luka's cup with his foot. "Boufffres! Bois!"  
  
Luka wasn't the least bit hungry, but he was desperately thirsty. The fever, along with the heat and humidity were dehydrating him rapidly.Still, he hesitated. He'd been drinking bottled water most of the time since he'd come to the Congo. All the foreign doctors did. When he couldn't get bottled water, he always boiled or purified the local water before drinking it. But this water was clearly straight from the tap in the kitchen, the water they used for washing and cooking.  
  
"Bouffres! Bois!" the guard shouted yet again, and the threat in his voice was clear. Luka sighed and picked up the cup. He was sure that the guard would be only too happy for an excuse to shoot, and a bullet would kill him much faster than anything he might catch from the water. And, for that matter, dehydration would probably kill him pretty quickly too. He drank the water, but couldn't choke down more than a few mouthfuls of the rice. Still the guard seemed satisfied with the effort, and didn't bother him again.  
  
It then became obvious why the Mai Mai had rushed them through their meal. Two more guards came in, grabbed Sakina by her arms, and dragged her from the building.  
  
"Mama!" cried Chance. She had not made a murmer the entire time since they'd been captured, her mother's presence giving her the strength she seemed to need. But now she started sobbing, watching her mother vanish through the door.  
  
"T'as guele!" shouted the guard. "Arrestes de pleurnicher!" Bending down, he slapped the sobbing child hard across the face, and, shocked by the blow, her sobs quieted to a soft whimpering.  
  
Luka felt sick. He could stand whatever was happening to him; he knew he could face whatever might happen, but there was no reason for them to be so cruel to an innocent child. Did they _really_ expect that she wouldn't cry? She was so young, so afraid. And Sakina. He shuddered. If he had any doubts about what was going to happen to her, the coarse comments by the guards quickly dispelled them.   
  
Of course he had no real doubts about what was going to happen to him either. He would die. And so would Patrique. And the others. But Sakina they would spare ... her life anyway. And Chance; surely they wouldn't kill a child. Why would they kill a small child? He managed to smile at Chance. "Pleures pas ma petite," he said. Don't cry. "Maman va bien. Tout va bien." Chance looked at him, wide-eyed for a moment, then made a shaky attempt to dry her tears. "Tres bien. Sois courage."  
  
Suddenly, two of the guards approached him and, without a word, gave him a hard shove that sent him sprawling forward onto the floor. While one guard kept his foot planted firmly in the small of his back and the rifle even more firmly in his ribs, the other grabbed Luka's arms and, twisting them behind his neck, rapidly and expertly bound them tightly at the wrists and up the forearms with loops and knots of some sort of heavy cord. He felt them rip his Alliance ID from around his neck, and take his wallet from his pocket. Then, leaving him lying on the floor, they moved on to Patrique.  
  
For a moment, Luka lay there, dazed. He couldn't seem to move. Any attempt to lift his head sent pain tearing through his shoulders, and already his hands were going numb from the tightness of the bonds. Gradually, by shifting his weight slightly from side to side, Luka found that the cords had just enough give that he could relax his arms a bit, and find a more tolerable position. More importantly, the tingling in his hands eased. He had to keep the blood moving in his hands.  
  
It was noon now, and stiflingly hot. No air moved in the building. The cup of water might have been a lifetime ago. Luka's shirt clung to him, soaked through with sweat.   
  
All the prisoners had been tied now, all except Chance. Even the Mai Mai seemed to trust that a sobbing little girl with a freshly amputated leg was not likely to try and escape, and could not do them any harm.  
  
Another harsh command. "A genoux, la!"  
  
In spite of himself, Luka groaned. For all the discomfort from the bonds, and the heat and airlessness of the floor, he was at least lying down. A sharp kick in the ribs persuaded him to move, and somehow Luka managed to struggle to his knees, part of a line of similarly bound prisoners. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was becoming clear that the Mai Mai had, at least as of yet, no particular plans for them. They _could_ have left them lying on the floor in relative comfort (as such things are reckoned....), Luka realized, but the added discomfort and humiliation of forcing them to kneel, apparently indefinitely, seemed to amuse them, ease their boredom.  
  
The only small benefit to the new position was that, upright, he could feel the occassional breeze, hot though it was, blowing through the screened windows.  
  
Time passed, how long Luka didn't know. The movements of shadows were the only indicators that time was passing at all -- and the shadows moved very, very slowly. Luka could see the soldiers going in and out of the staff tent, and he knew that Sakina was in there. She had been so kind to him ... given him a gift when she herself owned virtually nothing, (a gift that the Mai Mai had already taken from him, ripped from his neck along with his ID tag), supported him when the malaria had made him almost too weak to walk. And now he could do nothing for her. Do nothing but think about what was happening to her. He tried _not_ to think about it, but still, as horrible as it was to comtemplate, it did distract him a bit from the physical pain.   
  
The hard floor seemed to be eating into his knees. His shoulders were cramped, muscles screaming from being held in one position for so long. The cords were already chafing and rubbing the skin beneath them raw, and his hands tingled and burned. His back ached, nearly breaking, from kneeling upright hour upon hour, and his mouth was parched, thirst making his lips crack and bleed. He had a pounding headache. Sweat ran into his eyes, and the salt burned in the sores on his face and wrists. Fresh chills had started, and he was shaking with cold now, despite the heat of the room. The breeze that had been so welcome a short time before was now just one more torment.  
  
When he could hold himself upright no longer, and sank down onto his heels, exhausted, the Mai Mai guard was there in an instant, shouting at him, making his head ache even more.  
  
"Lean on me," whispered Patrique.  
  
Luka was overwhelmingly grateful -- why had Patrique stuck by him for so long, put his own life into such danger for him? But he was also ashamed. He hated so much having to depend on another person, he hated to be thought weak; he _should_ be able to be stronger than this. But he also knew he had no choice. Leaning slightly to the side (he felt Patrique brace himself to take his weight), he rested against Patrique's body. And it helped, for a little while.  
  
But Luka soon realized that even this wasn't enough. He could do this no longer. The room was swimming before his eyes, and lights flashed behind them. Chills shook him to the bone, and, through a hissing and roaring in his ears he heard Patrique pleading with the guards, telling them how ill he was. Patrique risking his own life on Luka's behalf. "Il est malade, tu peux pas voir qu'il est malade? S'il vous plait, laisses le se reposer ----" and then something hard hit him, and the room was suddenly dark -- and after a long moment he realized that the 'something hard' had been the floor, and that he had fainted. Shouting voices; hands pulling him back to his knees. He tottered there for a moment, and then fell again. They would have to shoot him now, he thought vaguely. Staying upright was simply impossible.  
  
Then, to his surpise, there were hands pulling at him again, and holding something to his mouth. It was a cup. _Water_. Luka gulped down the water desperately, and felt a little strength seep back into his bones. When, again, they pulled him up to his knees, he found that he could stay there. For a few minutes anyway. Then the weakness, the dizziness, the chills, the flashing lights, all came again, stronger than before. Again, the floor rushed up to meet him, and he welcomed it. A few curses and shouts, a few kicks, but the guards seemed content to leave him lying on the floor -- and Luka was very content to be there.  
  
The long afternoon dragged on. A few more prisoners were brought in, tied up,and added to the line. Luka lay on the floor, shaking with chills and nausea, drifting in and out of a restless sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

As the room began to grow dark, another of the Mai Mai soldiers came in. He spoke quietly to the guards and then barked "Debout!" The other prisoners all rose stiffly to their feet. Luka managed somehow, encouraged by the prodding of a rifle, to rise as well, and stood there, swaying dizzily. "Trouves une paillasse!" the guard shouted. "Couches toi et dors!"  
  
Luka stumbled the few steps to the nearest cot, and collapsed, grateful simply to be horizontal again, grateful that the guards were going to let them sleep. But he knew he would not be able to sleep, not really. (The feverish drifting of the late afternoon had not provided him with any real rest at all.)   
  
He was desperately uncomfortable. His shoulders were virtually numb now, he could only feel a slight burning unless he made the mistake of trying to move his head or arms -- at which point they reminded him, all too clearly, that they still existed. Flies buzzed around him, crawling on his sweaty face, but every time he jerked his head, trying to get them to leave him alone, there was the pain in his shoulders. And he was thirsty; unbearably thirsty. Those two cups of water, perhaps half a liter in all, had been far too long ago, and much too little for his body's needs. Despite the dehydration, his bladder was now uncomfortably full as well, but with his arms tied, he could do nothing about it.   
  
The thirst though was the worst. It was difficult to think about anything except water. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Luka rolled over. There was only one Mai Mai guard, sitting by the door, rifle over his knees. He looked sleepy, bored. Perhaps if he asked nicely. Water wasn't that much to ask for.   
  
"Pardon," Luka said, as respectfully as he could manage."S'il vous plait ... un peux d'eau?"   
  
The guard ignored him, didn't even look his way.  
  
"Maybe they'll give us more water in the morning," Patrique said, trying to sound hopeful.  
  
"Yeah, probably," Luka replied. The guard didn't seem to mind their conversation now. (Perhaps he reasoned, Luka thought, that tied up and exhausted, they couldn't possibly be plotting escape.) Emboldened, he went on, "How are you holding up, Patrique?"  
  
"I've been better," Patrique admitted ruefully. "Are you feeling any better?"  
  
"A little bit. I think the fever's coming down again. The chills aren't so bad now. You should try to sleep, save your strength."  
  
"You too, Dr. Luka."  
  
Luka searched for a more comfortable position on the narrow cot, though his options were very limited. He could only lay on his stomach, and with his bound arms making it hard to move or turn his head, that made it difficult to breathe on the soft mattress. He'd been better off on the floor, he thought.   
  
Still, he tried to relax his taut muscles and think positive thoughts. The fever _did_ seem to be coming down. And they were still alive. Surely, if the Mai Mai had meant to kill them, they would have done so already. Perhaps in the morning they would free them, with a warning to stay out of Mai Mai-held territory. Or maybe they would take them to a refugee camp. They couldn't hold them here indefinitely.  
  
Finally, testament to his exhaustion and weakness, fatigue won out over pain and fear, and Luka slept.  
  
-----  
  
Pain jolted him awake. Luka's eyes flew open and he cried out -- and for a moment he couldn't remember where he was or what was happening. Something prodded sharply into his ribs -- the end of a rifle. "Debout! Viens!"  
  
The room was dark, and lying prone on the bed, Luka was still confused. He couldn't see who was speaking to him. His brain, fogged with fever and sleep, couldn't translate the French into a more familiar language. Then someone grabbed his arms and pulled him, agonizingly, to his feet. Two Mai Mai guards. They released his arms as soon as he was upright, and he fell immediately to the floor.  
  
Dizzy -- weak --- arms and shoulders burning -- he could barely feel his hands anymore. And, while the chills had stopped, he was cold. The night air was cooler than the day, and Luka's clothes were still drenched with sweat and, he realized after a moment, smelling the faint odor of ammonia about himself, urine. Luka knew he shouldn't be ashamed -- it was hardly his fault, or anything he could have kept from happening -- but he was. In the face of all that was happening, it seemed that all he had left was his pride, his dignity, and even that was being eroded away, a little bit at a time.  
  
"Sur tes pieds! Avance!" barked the guard. The words made sense now; they were simply ordering him to his feet, to walk; but Luka still couldn't obey. No matter how much he wanted to, his body was not going to obey either their commands or his own. Cursing, they grabbed his arms and dragged him across the floor, and out of the building. Luka gritted his teeth, fought back the urge to scream as his own weight, pulling on his bound arms, threatened to rip his shoulders from their sockets.  
  
He was going to die now, Luka was certain of that. There was no other reason for them to be taking him away. They would take him to one of the other buildings, or the staff tent, or perhaps just out in the yard, and shoot him. Well... if that was to be his fate, there was nothing he could do about it. He could face this too with whatever dignity he had left. He wouldn't scream ... or beg for his life. Neither one, he knew, would make any difference.  
  
They had reached the staff tent. It was lit with several lanterns. Three more Mai Mai soldiers were there, waiting for him. And, on one of the cots, looking drawn and worn and exhausted, but apparently uninjured (beyond the effects of her own ordeal, of course), was Sakina. She looked at him with frightened eyes, and Luka found himself wondering how bad _he_ must look by now.  
  
The guards released his arms and Luka slumped to the dirt floor. For a few moments he lay there, eyes closed, trying to stop the trembling -- it was fatigue and weakness, not fear, he told himself firmly -- he was _not_ afraid to die -- and waited for the bullet. There would be pain for a moment, he knew, and then it would all be over. 


	4. Chapter 4

No bullet came. No pain. No darkness. Instead, the guard who seemed to be in charge shouted, "A genoux!"   
  
'On my knees? Again?' thought Luka grimly. 'That's right, just ask the impossible .... Perhaps you'd like me to fly as well?' But a sharp kick in the middle of his back awakened whatever survival instinct he had left and, biting back a groan, he tried to struggle to his knees. But he couldn't do it without help from the other guards. Once upright, he looked the guard in the eye -- calmly, he hoped -- and tried again to still his trembling. And again, he waited. The guard was looking back at him, also calmly. He held a gun, but didn't raise it. Maybe the other soldiers, the ones who were standing behind him, supporting him, would be the ones to kill him. A bullet in the back of the neck, or the back of the head. And he would never know when to expect it. Maybe, if they were good enough shots, he would never feel it at all; he would never know the moment he died.   
  
More seconds dragged by. The soldiers just waited. And Luka could only wait as well. 'Stay calm,' he told himself. Don't let them know that you're frightened -- don't be frightened.'   
  
Suddenly, for some reason, he found himself remembering the trick that some of the other ER doctors used to calm frightened and distraught patients. 'Imagine that you are someplace else ... someplace comfortable, someplace safe. Now ... where are you?' And he almost smiled. Where would he want to be? With Danijela, of course ... safe in her arms. Well, he would be there soon enough. Or, did they have something else in mind for him? Mental torture, perhaps? Yet another version of the senseless brutality of the previous day? Was this his punishment for his failure to kneel long enough? They were going to make him kneel now, for as many hours as he'd spent lying on the floor?   
  
Luka pushed away the thoughts. No... think yourself with Danijela... that's better. Be with Danijela ...  
  
"Ton nom?!" The question, shouted harshly by the guard, caught Luka by surprise. He hadn't expected to be asked anything. And they had his ID card... they must know his name. Before he could recover from the shock, bring his thoughts back into the present, and frame an answer (though it was, surely, a simple enough question) a fist caught him hard across the jaw, in the same spot as before, opening the cut on his cheek, splitting his lip. Stunned, Luka would have fallen backwards, but the guards behind him tightened their grip on his arms, and he remained upright. "Reponds!"  
  
Luka licked the blood from his lip. "Kovac." No, his voice was too faint, it was shaking. Show them you aren't afraid. More firmly, "Luka Kovac. Je suis un docteur avec L'Alliance ..."  
  
"Tu travails pour le gouvernement!"  
  
"Non," Luka protested. "On est neutre, on travail pour..." his words cut off with a cry of pain, as something, a boot, a rifle butt, Luka couldn't be certain, struck him hard in the middle of his back, right over his kidney. Again, he would have fallen, but the guards held him fast. It was already getting hard for him to think of the French words he needed to explain to them that the Alliance was neutral. While he spoke reasonable French, he still _thought_ in English or Croatian .. and it was so hard to think right now.  
  
"Tu soignes les soldats du gouvernment!"  
  
"On soigne tout le monde sans exception ..." Luka was gasping a little, struggling to put the words he needed together. But he had to make them understand that the clinic treated everyone; soldier or civilian, government or rebel alike. That he would even treat _them_. "Si tu est malade ou blesse et tu viens a la clinique nous ..."   
  
A boot this time, Luka could see it clearly, in his gut, and he was doubled over, retching, gasping. This time they let him fall, and Luka crumpled to the ground; shaking, fighting for air -- fighting to _not_ vomit. A few feet away he could hear quiet sobs. Sakina was witnessing all this, and crying.  
  
Gradually, the pain eased a little, and Luka could breathe again -- the cool earth felt good under his bleeding cheek. Perhaps they would leave him alone now. He had no information that could possibly be of use to them. But no, he was pulled to his knees again, and the questioning continued.  
  
Endless questions; meaningless, senseless questions. Whatever answers Luka tried to give, or if he hesitated a moment too long before answering, the response from his captors was always the same -- more blows. Sometimes fists, but more often boots and rifle butts, landed again and again on his head, his face, his chest, his back, his stomach. He heard, as much as felt, the sickening sound of ribs cracking, and bones in his face. One of the guards grabbed his bound arms firmly, and forced them upwards, until Luka screamed, and he felt and heard the pop as his shoulder dislocated. Blood flowed freely from his nose, ran into his eyes from cuts on his head and face. It was getting hard to breathe. There was too much blood in his mouth ... in his lungs. There was too much pain. Why were they doing this? Why didn't they believe him? _What_ did they want him to say?  
  
Every few minutes, when they sensed that he was about to faint, they would stop for a moment; let him regain some strength and composure -- before beginning again. 


	5. Chapter 5

It was during one of the breaks that the truth suddenly dawned on him. The interrogation was just a sham -- an excuse. It didn't matter what answers he gave, or didn't give, to the questions. They weren't interested in what he had to say. They _had_ in fact, brought him here to kill him. But, instead of a quick, easy death -- a bullet between the eyes -- they were going to beat him to death. Very slowly.  
  
A low moan, like an animal, escaped him, and Luka was ashamed. _Why_ couldn't he be stronger? He could face this too, if he had to. It was only pain, and it would have to end soon. It _had_ to end soon. His body couldn't endure much more. He could still hear Sakina sobbing quietly on the cot. If he couldn't be brave for himself, surely he could be for her? She shouldn't have to know how much he was suffering.  
  
But his determination soon crumbled under the reality of the situation. Pain, redoubling every second, ate away relentlessly at his courage. After a well-placed boot heel had shattered the bone in his right leg, he could no longer kneel, even with support.(He'd fainted every time they had pulled him upright.) So they left him to lie on the ground. Instinctively, he tried to curl into a ball, to shield himself from the blows that seemed to come faster and faster. But he couldn't move his arms to cover his face, couldn't fold his legs up to protect his belly. And dimly, he knew that he shouldn't try. The sooner they landed a fatal blow, the sooner it would all be over.   
  
Still, he tried anyway. His body no longer belonged to him, was no longer under his control. He couldn't scream -- he didn't have the strength or the breath any longer -- but he moaned as each blow came, and he felt tears on his face (or maybe it was just blood...) and sometimes, he heard a voice that might have been his own gasping, and sometimes sobbing, "Please ... no ... stop ..." And his weakness, his failing spirit, seemed to only to amuse them. Between the blows came taunts now; laughter, cruel comments about his lack of strength, lack of fortitude. His lack of manhood. 'Il n'a pas de couille?'   
  
Then, another brief respite. The soldiers seemed to be tiring, bored. Maybe, Luka thought dimly, he wasn't dying fast enough to suit them. But he was dying. Of that he was sure. He could feel the drowsy numbness of shock beginning to creep over him. The pain, as all encompassing as it was, seemed to be happening to someone else.   
  
The jokes, the taunting, grew more pointed, more detailed. Luka's French was far from perfect, even when he was thinking clearly. He didn't understand all the words, all the slang. But he understood enough. 'C'est peut'etre une pedale? Maybe he isn't a man at all?' 'Mais, a _tu_ les couilles? But do _you_ have the balls?' And more laughter -- and then he felt hands fumbling with his trousers, his shorts, pulling them down around his knees. He felt hands touching him.  
  
No ... not ....this ... Luka tried desperately to tell himself that it didn't matter -- it couldn't be worse than what he had already endured. And he would be dead soon. Once he was dead, none of it would matter any more. Surely, once he was dead, he wouldn't remember how he had died. _Please ... don't let me have to remember this ... please ... make it stop now ... let me die now ... if I die now, they will stop...._

And, truthfully, he scarcely felt the violation when it happened. With agony already screaming through every nerve in his body, this added pain was hardly noticable. Not that they weren't trying to hurt him. The soldiers were rough -- brutal -- clearly intending this to be more physical torture as well as humiliation -- a demonstration of their absolute power over him. Luka could only lay in the dirt, trembling, try to think of something else, anything else; try to pretend that it was all happening to someone else, and try to die. But still, he could hear that voice that sounded so much like his own crying out weakly, begging them to stop. Every time he thought it was over, that they were done, there would be more laughter, more bantering, more jokes -- then another body on top of his own, and it would all begin again.  
  
Finally it really was over. His trousers were pulled back up over his hips. A few more blows, half-hearted now, but they seemed to have tired of the whole business. Luka waited. Surely they would finish him off now, but if they didn't, death would come of its own accord, very soon. The shock was deepening, the pain seemed distant, unreal ...darkness was pulling at him gently. It would be so easy now ....  
  
Then, abruptly, more pain -- strong enough to break through the shock, to pull a weak scream from his throat. They had grabbed his arms again and were pulling him out of the tent -- into an ocean of redness where Luka couldn't see, couldn't hear anything but the agony crashing over him like ocean waves.  
  
Until the red turned black, and Luka knew nothing more.


	6. Chapter 6

"Dr. Luka! Dr. Luka!"   
  
_Pain. Agony. His world was nothing but pain. And someone calling his name._  
Luka tried to open his eyes ... to move ... but couldn't. Was this death? But death wasn't supposed to hurt. "Dr. Luka?" the voice came again, more insistent, frightened. A hard wooden floor beneath him. His eyes were open now, he was sure, but he still couldn't seem to see anything. The redness of his pain swam in and out with a shadowy darkness. His tongue moved slowly over lips that were swollen and cracked, thick with clotted blood. He tried to answer, he now knew that it was Patrique calling him. But all that came out of his mouth was a low groan. It didn't even sound like his own voice, and for some reason, that frightened Luka more than anything else. Why couldn't he speak -- at least let Patrique know that he had heard him ... he was still alive? What was happening to him? He tried again to speak, but could still only moan -- then the heavier darkness began to creep over him again.  
  
------  
  
Screams! He was screaming. No ... he could barely breathe any more, let alone gather enough breath to scream. But someone was screaming. Luka still couldn't move, still couldn't seem to see anything, but he sensed that the room was light now -- it was daytime. The next day, or had many days passed? Luka didn't know.   
  
More screams. Voices pleading, begging, crying. And, repeatedly, a sharp cracking sound. Gunshots. More and more gunshots, and fewer and fewer screams and voices. And Luka waited --- and was still waiting when he slipped away from the world once more ---  
  
--- then woke again to an eerie stillness. But not silence. He could hear his own voice moaning faintly, and the labored rasping of his breathing -- and the constant, low, heavy droning and buzzing of flies.   
  
Flies. Scores of flies. Hundreds of them. They were crawling on him, buzzing around his face, his lips, crawling into the corners of his eyes. Crawling on his neck ... under his shirt ... A sensation that was almost worse than the pain. He was growing accustomed to the pain. It had lasted so long that it was simply part of his existence now, the only reality he knew. He had been born into a world of pain and thirst, and only death would release him from it. Even when he was unconscious, he knew, the pain had still been there, tearing his body apart. But the flies. He couldn't bear the flies. He moved his head slightly, trying to get them to leave him alone, but they seemed undisturbed.  
  
"Patrique?" He managed to call out, his voice very faint and hoarse, but functioning again. His lips cracked open as he moved them to speak, and fresh blood oozed. "Patrique?" There was only silence. An oppressive stillness. "Oh God....." he murmured. "Please ... no ....." He was utterly alone.  
  
Time passed. Luka had no idea of how long it had been. Minutes? Hours? Days? Sometimes the room seemed to be light, other times it was dark, or perhaps the difference was only in his eyes. He could still see nothing but shadows. Sometimes he was hot, burning with fever. And then he would be shaking with cold, or perhaps it was fear. The only constants were the pain, the thirst, and the flies. Those never left him. He couldn't move. Once or twice he had tried to raise his head, to try and look around the room, but he was too weak, and even the effort sent fresh waves of agony through his neck and shoulders.  
  
Luka waited for death. It would come, he knew it had to come. But why was it taking so long? He tried to pray --- whispering every prayer he could remember from his childhood. (And why could he remember those so easily, but find it so hard to remember what had happened just hours or days ago?)  
  
When he ran out of prayers, when he could no longer remember them, he just talked to God, begging, pleading. "_Please God ... no more ... make it stop ... molim ... molim ...."_ But there was no-one there. He was, he knew, utterly alone. Even God had abandoned him. His prayers brought no end to the pain ... no end to his life ... not even comfort.  
  
Imagine yourself with Danijela ... He tried that game again. He tried to picture her face in his memory ... the touch and scent of her. But he couldn't; reality, with all its horrors, was far too pervasive. He could only wait to be with her again ... and pray, hopelessly that it would happen soon. "_Please God ... I can't ... no more ... make it stop ... why won't you let me die? I can't bear it any more ... please ...."_ And tears squeezed from his eyes, their salt burning his face, until he was too dry to even make tears.  
  
But eventually, the moments when he was lucid enough to pray, to think at all, grew fewer. He was sliding again, relentlessly, into a hellish place where the only reality was pain, thirst and flies and a growing, foul odor. And then, finally, even that gave way to a sense of calm, of peace -- and nothingness. 


	7. Chapter 7

The jeep bounced over the rutted roads; Charles swerving to avoid the worst of the pot-holes -- though the whole road was, of course, little more than one big pot-hole. The rains tended to do that.  
  
No-one talked much now. Charles had to concentrate on his driving and, as they got closer to Matenda, Gillian was too anxious to do more than smoke cigarette after cigarette. John too just stared out the window, tension clear on his face. Everything would be ok. It _had_ to be ok. Gillian lit another cigarette.  
  
It had been four days. John had been preparing to leave, to return to Chicago. Gillian had radioed the Matenda clinic, so he could say good-bye to Luka, but there had been no answer. Call after call brought only silence -- dead air -- but there _had_ been reports of increased fighting in the area, extensive rebel activity.   
  
They had tried to tell themselves, had told each other (as if wishing would make it so) that there was nothing to worry about. Luka could take care of himself. And the Mai Mai wouldn't harm medical workers, would they? Perhaps Luka and Patrique had to flee the fighting, or maybe the radio battery was dead. But Gillian couldn't help imaging the worst, and she knew that the others were just as worried.  
  
"We shouldn't have left him alone there!" Gillian had said.  
  
"If he's ... in trouble, we couldn't help him by being there," had been John's reply.  
  
"You probably saved us last time," Gillian had reminded him, "Just by being there."  
  
John had put off leaving for home, until he could know for certain that Luka was safe. And they'd all tried to distract themselves from their concerns by keeping very busy dealing with the increasing trickle of refugees coming from the east. A few were from the area around Matenda, but none had any news about the clinic, or about the tall western doctor who worked there.  
  
Finally, after four long days, word came that the area around Matenda was, again, in FAC hands, and the road was open. Angelique hadn't wanted them to go, it was still too dangerous, she said, but the radio remained stubbornly silent, and John and Gillian could not rest until they were certain Luka was ok. (Or, barring that, they knew what had happened to him.) So, with one Congolese guard, they had set out that morning for Matenda.   
  
-----  
  
Gillian broke the silence, which was becoming unbearable. "He's going to laugh at us, you know," she said. "Tell us that we're all a bunch of worry-warts."  
  
"Worry-warts? I don't think Luka even knows the expression," John replied, with a smile that looked as forced as Gillian's light-hearted words had felt.  
  
"If the patients are well enough to travel, I hope we can convince him to come back to Kisangani. No way to know how long Matenda will remain safe." Charles swerved around another pot-hole.  
  
"He did say they were all doing well the last time --- when I talked to him last." Gillian couldn't even bear to think that it might have been, in fact, the _last_ time she would ever talk to him.   
  
----  
  
They had reached the clinic. Everything was quiet.  
  
"It looks ok," said John slowly, as Charles parked the jeep.  
  
"It's too quiet..." Gillian said, her voice already shaking a little. She had seen the screen door; the screening was torn, the doorframe bent. And why had no-one come out to greet them? Surely Luka or Patrique should have appeared by now.  
  
They got out of the jeep. "Luka! Patrique!" John called. "Luka!" Together they started to walk towards the clinic building. It was much too quiet. The only sounds a faint low droning, and their own footsteps.  
  
Then the smell hit them. Rotting flesh.  
  
"Oh my God..." moaned Gillian, and her hand went instinctively to cover her mouth. They approached the steps, and stopped to steel themselves for they all knew they would find. Gillian tried to tell herself that it would be something else. Dead Mai Mai soldiers perhaps, from the fighting, -- or a patient who had been too ill to be moved, who they had been forced to abandon when they fled. Surely Luka and Patrique were still hiding in the jungle, or perhaps had started to make their way back to Kisangani on foot.  
  
"Gillian, you wait outside," John said, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. The smell was getting stronger with every step.  
  
"No ... I''m ok." Gillian took the scarf from her hair and, following John's example, tied it around her nose and mouth. It didn't totally block the smell, but it helped. 


	8. Chapter 8

They stood at the top of the steps and looked in through the screen door -- and Gillian whimpered, unable to take in the sight before her eyes.  
  
She could never have imagined such horror. Bodies everywhere. A few lay on the beds, most were scattered across the floor. Perhaps a dozen in all; bound, bloodied, swarming with flies, and already rotting in the African heat. Even standing outside the door, and with the scarf over her face, the stench was overpowering.  
  
John opened the door and they went inside. Gillian felt a faint flicker of hope. The bodies all seemed to be African; government soldiers, civilians. "Chance" gasped John, and Gillian saw the body of a small child, missing one leg below the knee, with a bullet wound in her head. "The bastards...." John bent down to check her, but she was obviously dead -- had been for days.   
  
Still, she didn't see Luka. Perhaps he _had_ fled -- no, she knew he would never have abandoned his patients.  
  
There ... behind the second bed, on the floor, a too familiar form. Like all the others, he lay face down, and his arms, bound at the wrists and forearms behind his neck, partially blocked her view of his face. But there was no doubt. Tall; dark hair, matted thickly with dried blood; an "Alliance" tee-shirt, also soaked with blood, and skin that was, beneath the layers of bruises, grime and dried blood (and far too many flies), obviously white.  
  
Unbidden, a quote that she'd read somewhere once popped into her head. "My God ... he's even bigger dead than alive ...." and Gillian quickly put her hand to her mouth to stop the hysterical laughter that she feared would slip out. "John! Over here!"  
  
She knelt beside Luka's body. "Oh God ... no..." she whispered. Then she blinked. It was an illusion, it had to be. The result of tears blurring her eyes, and the constant movement of flies.  
  
But something seemed different. The smells around his body, while suffocating, weren't the smells of rotting flesh, but of stale sweat and urine, of feces, and of infected wounds. And, as she cautiously touched him, his body was hot beneath her hand, burning with fever. This time, there was no question -- a slight movement, a shudder, a faint rasping sound as he struggled to breathe.  
  
"He's alive!" gasped Gillian. Her eyes met John's as he knelt across from her, and in them she could see the same mixture of relief and utter horror that she was feeling. He was alive, but how long had he been lying here? Could they possibly save him now? Or did this just mean that he would have a prolonged and painful death, rather than a quick and easy one. The other prisoners showed few signs of abuse; little blood or bruising. They all seemed to have been killed with a single bullet to the head. They would have died quickly. Perhaps they were the lucky ones. 


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9  
  
Gillian was already working desperately at the cords that bound Luka's wrists, holding his arms at an impossible angle. It was electrical wire, and it was slippery with blood and pus. Her eyes, blurred with tears and sweat, could barely see the knots.  
  
As she worked, John was rapidly assessing him. "Weak carotid," he said. "Tachy, around 120 ... agonal resps ... rales ... could be pneumonia but ...." He ran his hands down Luka's ribcage and Gillian could hear the faint scraping of broken bone. "It's probably blood in the lungs. He's got multiple rib fractures."  
  
Charles came over. "No other survivors," he said quietly. "Patrique is over there."  
  
Gillian had the last knot. She quickly unwrapped the loops of cord. Released, Luka's arms slid toward the floor, and he groaned faintly, somewhere deep in his throat. A groan that Gillian echoed as she got a good look at his wrists, and felt nausea tugging at her own throat. The cords had rubbed the skin raw -- open sores, festering, down to the bone in some spots -- and crawling with maggots.  
  
It was too much. Pulling the scarf from her mouth, Gillian turned away quickly and vomited onto the floor.  
  
"How can human beings do this to each other?" John whispered, slowly shaking his head.  
  
"They probably thought he would die from his injuries, and so didn't bother to shoot him," Charles suggested. "Why waste a perfectly good bullet?" Bitter irony.  
  
John just nodded. He seemed numb. Gillian forced herself to go numb too. She knew she had to distance herself from what was happening if she was going to be able to do what had to be done. Luka needed her. She had to be strong ... for him. Wiping her mouth, she retied the scarf, then turned back to Luka.  
  
"Let's roll him," John said. "Real gently now ...." As carefully as they could, they turned him. Despite their best efforts, the movement ripped another faint cry from his throat. He still seemed to be unconscious though, responding only to pain. He'd given no indication that he had heard them talking, or was even aware of their presence.   
  
Gillian caught her breath as she got her first good look at Luka's face. It was almost unrecognizable; covered with blood, horribly swollen. Both eyes were blackened and swollen shut; his lips too were nearly black, cracked and split, and oozing blood and pus. A deep laceration over the left cheekbone, another across his scalp at the hairline, and a dozen lesser cuts and sores. All had attracted more maggots.  
  
John looked up at Charles. "Any drugs or supplies? Or did the Mai Mai clean them out?" They'd brought nothing with them. John had his stethoscope, but the Kisangani hospital had been too low on supplies for them to bring any to restock, and they hadn't expected to need any for immediate use.  
  
"I'll look," Charles said. "I'll also check the rest of the compound; see if there are any more survivors ... or bodies."  
  
John only nodded, then continued his examination. Using his pocket knife, he cut Luka's shirt down the front. His torso was a solid mass of bruises; purple and black, and more festering sores. The broken ribs were visible under the skin. His left shoulder was swollen and discolored, obviously dislocated. Cutting away the bloodied pantlegs revealed a left leg that was covered with the now familiar assortment of bruises, open sores and maggots, and a right leg that was clearly broken in several places, an open fracture with bone showing through just below the knee.  
  
"How did he survive this?" asked Gillian. "He must have been lying here for two or three days at least."  
  
"Probably longer than that, from the look of these wounds ... and those bodies."  
  
Charles was back. "No drugs, no supplies. The Mai Mai took most of it, and smashed what they couldn't use or carry. No other bodies or survivors either."  
  
John shook his head. "What a waste ... what a sick, senseless waste." Whether he was referring to the destruction of valuable medical equipment or the wasted lives, Gillian wasn't sure. John was silent for a moment, looking at his friend; then he touched Luka's face with a very gentle hand. "I can't do anything for him -- not that would make a difference. At home ... even in Kisangani, he might have a chance. But without supplies ... we don't even have a damn IV ..." He trailed off and shook his head again, emotionally drained.  
  
Gillian just stared for a minute, unable to process what John was saying. "John ... we need to take him back to Kisangani. Give him a chance! That's what we came here for!"  
  
"It's five, six hours over rough roads in the back of an open truck. He can't possibly last six more hours anyway, and the trip would definitely kill him."  
  
"We have nothing to lose by trying. If we stay here, he dies, right?"  
  
"It would be agonizing for him." John sounded exhausted. "Here, we can at least try to make him a little more comfortable ... maybe he'll even know he isn't alone anymore." Though Luka was clearly well beyond knowing anything any more. John's voice softened to a whisper. "Maybe he'll be able to let go."  
  
"Let go? We can't give up, John. He didn't give up. He's been fighting. He must want to survive ... to live. We have to give him that chance." Gillian continued more quietly, through her tears. "He'd want us to try. I know he would. And if he dies on the road ... he dies. It couldn't be worse than dying here ... in this Godforsaken hellhole. He still won't be alone; we'd be with him."  
  
Charles nodded. "We can't stay here much longer, Dr. John," he reminded them. "We need to leave soon if we're going to get back before dark. It still isn't safe to be on the roads at night, and it definitely isn't safe to be here. We can't wait for him to pass."  
  
John finally sighed and nodded. "You're right. Ok ... let's get him outside. I'm suffocating in here."  
  
They found a stretcher, slashed and broken, but usable for a short distance and, after sliding Luka carefully onto it, took him outside. 


	10. Chapter 10

Once they were outside in the air John pulled the bandana from his mouth and continued, "Ok, Charles and I will get a bed fixed up in the back of the truck, and some sort of shade from the sun. Gillian, why don't you get him cleaned up a little. He'll be more comfortable."  
  
Charles brought her a pail of water and some fairly clean rags from the kitchen. "No towels," he told her. Carefully removing the remains of Luka's filth-stiffened shirt and pants, Gillian began to gently sponge away the grime, the maggots and and the blood, talking to him all the while -- meaningless words of comfort and reassurance. But, despite her efforts to be gentle, her touch seemed to cause him pain, because he groaned and struggled weakly, oblivious to her words.  
  
Then, suddenly, though his eyes remained shut behind the swelling, his lips parted slightly and he rasped, barely audible, "Voda ... molim ... voda ...."  
  
At first Gillian thought he was delirious, babbling. Then she remembered that the word voda, or something much like it, meant 'water' in Russian. Perhaps it was the same in Croatian?   
  
She hesitated. He still didn't seem to be concious, not really, and, as dry as he was, she doubted that he could swallow anymore. Any water she gave him to drink would most likely be aspirated into his lungs, making matters worse. (Not that they _could _be much worse, of course.).   
  
But he was suffering. There was so little they could do for him. If a little water would make him more comfortable... ease his pain ... maybe it was worth the risk. And if he _could_ swallow, he obviously was in dire need of hydration. Gillian took the water bottle from her belt.  
  
"O.K. Luka. Here's some water. Just a little bit. Don't try to swallow yet, just let it wet your mouth." Raising his head slightly, she poured a few drops of water, perhaps a teaspoon in all, between his cracked lips. He didn't swallow, but didn't seem to aspirate either. He shuddered slightly and moaned again, very faint. A little more water, a few drops at a time. Luka still made no attempt to swallow, but the water seemed to be being absorbed into the bone-dry membranes in his mouth. When the next sip spilled out and ran down his chin, she set his head back down gently. "That's enough for now, Luka. Let's finish your bath, then you can have another drink if you want it."  
  
She had finished washing the front of his torso, his face and his arms. She didn't touch the broken leg -- it was horribly infected -- if he survived, she knew he'd probably lose it -- but she washed the other leg. With John's pocket knife, she slit the sides of his shorts. Like his other clothes, they were saturated with filth; with urine and blood and feces. But they were dry. He'd stopped making urine a long time ago. The skin beneath them was, of course, raw and reddened. Gillian washed the area carefully.  
  
As she tended to him, Gillian couldn't help thinking of other days...other nights...other touches. Part of her rebelled at the memories, there was nothing the least bit erotic about this, of course. As she cleaned the filth from his skin, and fought to ignore the smells that cold water alone couldn't remove from his body, and the stench that still wafted from the clinic, she tried to pretend he was someone else. Even as she tried to stay in "nurse" mode, tried to keep her emotional distance, she couldn't fight back the overwheling sense of tenderness. But these were not the feelings she would have for her lover, no, these were different. As she bathed him she found herself feeling like she did when nursing a frightened, wounded child. She couldn't identify why, but he no longer seemed to be the man with whom she had spent so many (yet far too few....) nights. He seemed -- broken. And it wasn't the shattered bones, nor was it anything in his expression (the swelling left his face with little expression at all). It was just a feeling -- an inexplicable sense that his spirit had been broken, along with his body. Even if they could heal his body, she wondered, would they be able to repair the spirit?  
  
Gillian wanted desperately to hold him; to comfort him, to ease his pain -- to hold him in her arms while he died, if, in fact, that was what was going to happen. But she couldn't. She knew that something as simple as putting her arms around him would only cause him more pain, and she couldn't -- wouldn't -- do that to him.  
  
As John approached them, Gillian looked up and said, "Can you help me turn him? I need to wash his back."  
  
"We'll need Charles too. We don't want to twist him," said John. Together, Charles and John rolled Luka onto his side, and Gillian quickly (because Luka was gasping in pain) washed his back. The buttocks took longer; they were caked with filth, and Luka was suddenly struggling with a surprising amount of strength, and saying faintly "Ne... ne... molim...."  
  
Gillian finished as quickly as she could and said "Ok, that's good." and then to Luka, "All finished, Luka. It's all done. No more pain." (Oh... if only that could be true...)  
  
They settled him onto his back, and John fashioned a splint for his broken leg, so it wouldn't move too much on the trip.  
  
"Do we want to try and reduce the dislocation?" asked Gillian.  
  
John shook his head. "No, I don't want to risk more nerve damage by doing it under uncontrolled circumstances, and without any pain meds to relax him. It's been like this for days, a few more hours won't make much difference." He paused. "And the less pain we can cause him right now, the better." Gillian knew what he was getting at. Luka was dying. Neither of them really expected him to survive the journey. A dislocated shoulder would make no difference to him when he was dead.  
  
"There are no clean clothes for him," Charles said. "The Mai Mai stole all his possessions. Patrique's too."  
  
"We'll just cover him with a sheet," John said. "There are a few of those still around."  
  
While covering him and making him comfortable again, Gillian said, quietly, "There was a lot of bruising around his rectum. I couldn't tell if there were any tears or bleeding. I didn't want to hurt him." She bit her lip. "It could from the beating, I suppose .. or from lying there so long ... so dirty."  
  
John just nodded. "We'll do a thorough exam when we get back to Kisangani. We can medicate him for the pain."  
  
"What are we going to do about the others ..." Gillian asked. "Patrique and Chance and Sakina?"  
  
Charles suddenly looked up, his eyes widening. "Sakina wasn't here! I didn't see her body anywhere. There was just Chance, and the men."  
  
"You checked everywhere?" asked Gillian.  
  
"Yes; the tent, the kitchen, the storage shed. I suppose they could have left her in the jungle somehwere."  
  
"Well, there's no time to start searching now," said John. "There's a lot of jungle. And we don't have time to deal with the bodies today anyway. Once we get back to Kisangani, we'll see that someone comes out here to bury them, if it's still safe. They can look some more for Sakina's body." 


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11  
  
The truck was ready. John and Charles had put several cot mattresses down, and rigged a simple sunshade from an old sheet. They got Luka onto the bed, managing somehow to keep his long legs from hanging off the end; and then, with Charles driving again, the Congolese guard beside him, and Gillian and John in the back with Luka, they started out.  
  
The trip was as horrible as they had expected it to be. The ruts and pot-holes that had been merely uncomfortable and annoying on the way there were clearly torture for Luka's broken body.  Too weak to scream, too far gone to hear their words of comfort and reassurance, he could only struggle feebly, seeking some escape from the pain, and finding none.  
  
"It's ok, Luka ... everything's ok ... just hold on ... I know it hurts ... we'll be there soon ...." Tears coursed down Gillian's face as she repeated the words over and over, until she was nearly as hoarse as Luka -- the words that Luka still seemed unable to hear.  
  
The sun sank lower.  Perhaps an hour outside of Kisangani, Luka suddenly grew quiet.  Much too quiet.    
  
"Luka!" Gillian gasped.  "John! I don't think he's breathing."   
  
John quickly felt Luka's throat.  "He still has a pulse, but he's starting to brady down." The two of them looked at each other. Perhaps this was best -- he had already suffered so long. Maybe they should let his pain end, let him have some peace. This was, after all, what they had expected to happen. But Gillian wasn't ready. Not yet. She shook her head frantically.  
  
"We're almost there," she whispered, pleading. "It isn't much farther."  
  
John ground his knuckles firmly into Luka's collarbone, and Gillian winced as she saw his face contort slightly in pain. "Luka! Keep breathing!" John didn't shout, but his voice was firm, to penetrate into Luka's fading awareness. "Try ... damn it! You've come too far to give up now!"  When John took his hand away, Luka relaxed again into stillness. John tried again, and again the slight movement, the reaction to the new pain. "You are not going to do this, Luka. You have to try a little!" And Luka gasped. Once. Twice.  
  
For the rest of the trip it was a challenge to keep him breathing; keep him alive. But they did. And in the last of the sunset, they pulled up in front of the hospital in Kisangani.  
  
Angelique's first words were "Oh my God...", then all professional, she said "Let's get him inside. Quickly!"  
  
While facilities at Kisangani were, of course, far superior to the nonexistent ones in Matenda, they were still very primitive. Without x-rays, they had to rely on practiced touch and careful examination to determine the severity of his injuries.  Still, with a little of the hospital's very precious stock of Versed, a hefty dose of morphine, and a bag-mask to keep him breathing, they were able to examine him without causing him more pain.  
  
The assessment was grim. Broken cheekbones and nose,  and probable concussion. Maybe even a skull  fracture, but there was no way to be certain.  Dislocated left shoulder (which they reduced with the aid of the drugs, but they couldn't yet know if he'd sustained permanent nerve damage). Nine, maybe ten broken ribs, and a collapsed lung. Internal injuries of unknown severity. (The DPL was positive, and the urine that had stained his clothes had been bloody, suggesting a kidney injury -- but, as Angelique pointed out sensibly, if the injury had been severe and the bleeding extensive, he would have bled to death long ago. The bleeding had probably stopped, or at least slowed down and, as weak as he was, an e-lap would be more likely to kill him than would simply leaving well enough alone. Once he was stronger, if there was still evidence of bleeding or infection, she could explore the belly then.) There was also the right tib-fib fracture, an open fracture with severe infection and the beginnings of gangrene in the wound.  
  
And, of course, severe dehydration (they'd started two IVs immediately, and were squeezing in saline as fast as they could), high fever from malaria, dozens of infected wounds, and, probably, pneumonia from the pneumothorax. And some deep tears and bruising around his rectum.  
  
Gillian said again, hopefully, "It could be from just lying there so long .... He was filthy, that could cause these kind of injuries."   
  
"Yes, it could be," agreed Angelique with a nod, but she didn't meet her eyes. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now, except keep the wounds clean.  They will heal."  
  
"We can't do .... a rape kit?" John asked.  
  
"We don't do those here," Angelique replied, her voice brisk. "There would be no point." A slight smile. "Unless you intend to try and prosecute a bunch of Mai Mai soldiers for rape?" She shook her head. "If he lives, we can ask him about it when he wakes up.  If he dies, it doesn't really matter anyway." A sigh.  "Ok... the main injury that I can actually do anything about surgically is the leg.  We'll debride it, remove the necrotic tissue and set it -- and hope for the best."  
  
"Do you think you can save it?" asked John.  
  
"We'll hope for the best," Angelique repeated, very gently. "Our main concern right now though is saving his life." 


	12. Chapter 12

Before dawn, Luka was tucked in bed in a private room the post-op ward. Angelique looked down at him wearily, and stretched her aching back. "He has a good chance," she said. "A few more hours though, and he wouldn't have."  
  
"As soon as he's stable," said John, "I want to transfer him; home to Chicago. Not that you don't do your best here, Angelique," he added quickly. "But he's going to need much more care than you can provide."  
  
"Of course. But it will be a while before we can even think about moving him.   
  
----  
  
For the next several days John and Gillian took turns sitting with Luka. He had been alone so long, neither one wanted him to be alone now, even though he was still unaware of their presence. Angelique kept him heavily sedated against the pain, while fluids and antibiotics poured into his veins. And his condition remained stable and then began, very slowly to improve. He was still very critical, and Angelique shook her head grimly every time she checked the infected leg, but they finally began to relax, confident that he would survive; that the strength and 'fight' that had gotten him through his unimaginable ordeal would carry him through his recovery as well.  
  
After three days, Angelique cut back on the sedation (she had already given him far more than she would typically have spared for a single patient), so he could wake up when he was ready.  
  
Gillian was dozing in her chair, when she startled awake.  
  
"Gillian?" Luka's voice, but almost unrecognizable. Hoarse, faint, confused.  
  
"I'm right here, Luka," she said quickly.  
  
"Thirsty..." His eyes were open. He didn't move his head, but his eyes were looking around the room in confusion. "Water, please?"  
  
Gillian filled a cup for him. "Here you go. Nice and slow now." She raised his head so he could drink and he swallowed, painfully at first, then more easily. His eyes watched her, childlike, over the edge of the cup.  
  
When he had taken, perhaps, 100 cc's, she took the cup away. "Not too much. We don't want you to vomit it back up again. You're getting lots of fluids through your IV." She settled him back down on the pillow and studied his face for a moment. Though the swelling had gone down considerably, it was still hard to read his expression. But his eyes looked ... lost. She tucked the sheet more snugly around him, and said "Luka? Do you know where you are?"  
  
"Hospital..." It was almost a question, in spite of the nod that accompanied the word.  
  
"That's right. In Kisangani. Are you in any pain?"  
  
Luka had to think about this one. "Feels like ... been hit by a truck ..." he managed a weak smile, then winced, but said, "But it's ... not too bad." A pause. "How long have I been here?"  
  
"Almost four days. We brought you here Thursday evening. It's about 10:30 Monday morning now."  
  
"I'm tired." Luka's eyes were closed again.   
  
"I know. Getting well is exhausting work." Luka's eyes opened. He was looking around again, seemed to be searching the room for something. "Luka," Gillian asked after a minute, (unsure what answer she hoped he would give,) "do you remember what happened to you?"  
  
Luka's eyes clouded for a moment, he seemed to be looking inward, as if he'd realized that whatever he was searching for wasn't in the room at all, but inside of him. "I was dead" he whispered. "I thought I was dead ... I _was_ ... there was so much pain ... I couldn't stand it ... then there wasn't any more ... I was ...." He was trembling, and Gillian heard the hysteria edging his voice, saw panic and helpless confusion in his eyes.  
  
She quickly took his hand and interrupted him firmly. "You're safe now, Luka. Everything is going to be ok. You didn't die. You were very badly hurt, but you're getting well now, and everything is going to be ok."  
  
Luka didn't answer. He just lay there trembling for a few minutes, then finally said, very faintly, "I'm so tired..."  
  
"So go back to sleep. You need lots of rest now so you can get better." Luka's eyes fell shut. Gillian gently stroked his hair and, in a few moments, she felt him relax into sleep. And then Gillian allowed herself to cry, tears of pure relief. 


	13. Chapter 13

Pain woke him again. He opened his eyes to see Angelique standing by his bed, doing something to his leg. Something that hurt. She smiled at him.  
  
"Good morning, Luka."  
  
" 'morning." Luka licked parched lips. Why was he so thirsty? "What time is it?"  
  
"About 8 o:clock. It's Wednesday. A beautiful, hot, rainy, morning."  
  
Wednesday? How could it be Wednesday? It had just been Monday. Hadn't Gillian said it was Monday? Or had that been a dream? He tried desperately to remember. He remembered talking to Gillian, and then there was only a fog ... dim memories of pain, of vaguely familiar faces looking at him ... smiling at him .... voices talking to him, hands doing things, sometimes gentle, sometimes hurting him. He remembered crying out, why had they been hurting him? Had all of that been dreams? Or nightmares? The pain was certainly real enough. Everything hurt. The simple act of breathing made his chest ache. It was all too confusing to think about right now. He'd think about something else.   
  
"How did I get here?"  
  
"Charles, John and Gillian found you -- you were just about alive -- and brought you back. I got the very challenging job of putting you back together again."  
  
"Didn't do a very good job," Luka managed to joke feebly. "Still feel .... terrible."  
  
"I'm sure you do. You're still in pretty bad shape; malaria, pneumonia, lots of broken bones and dislocations, and about a million cuts and bruises. But you're improving; a lot faster than we might have expected." Another warm smile. "You're pretty tough, you know that?"  
  
"My leg hurts ... a lot ..." An understatement. It throbbed with a pain that went into the pit of his stomach. Worse than all his other pains combined.  
  
"Yes." A pause. "It's very badly broken; a compound fracture. By the time they found you and brought you back here, it had become badly infected; both soft tissue infection and osteomyelitis. I cleaned it up as well as I could, debrided it, and we've got you on the best antibiotic cocktail we can put together here -- but you're not out of the woods yet."  
  
Luka swallowed, fully aware of what she wasn't saying. "Amputation?"  
  
"If things don't start improving soon, yes." She picked up his chart and started making some notes on it.  
  
Luka was suddenly trembling and couldn't stop. Angelique put down her pen. "Luka, you're doing very well. I think we can be optimistic here, ok?" Luka just nodded numbly, seeing -- and feeling -- the image of a boot-heel coming down hard on his leg, just below the knee -- again and again -- until the bone shattered. And Angelique seemed to understand that it wasn't the prospect of losing his leg that was making him shake. "Luka." Her voice was gentle, but firm enough to draw his attention. "You remember what happened to you?" It was as much a statement as a question.  
  
Luka nodded. The memories were jumbled, confused. A nightmarish assortment of images and recollections of terror ... of pain ... of flies ... of trying to pray ... of trying to die. Some of the images were sharp, others seemed to hover just beyond the edge of his memory.  
  
"A pretty bad beating?" asked Angelique. Luka nodded again. "With the injuries exacerbated by having to wait several days for help to find you." She seemed about to say something else, then thought better of it then said, very firmly, "Ok, Luka, what happened to you was terrible. But it's over. It's all over now. You are going to get better. It's just going to take some time. Do you hear me?"  
  
Luka nodded one more time, still shaking too hard to try to speak. Angelique held his hand quietly until he was calm again, then asked, "Do you think you could eat something today?"  
  
"Not hungry..." When the shaking spell had ended, it had left in its wake exhaustion, washing over him in waves. He wanted, needed, to sleep.  
  
"I know. You're still feverish. But we need to start getting some nutrition into you. We're keeping you hydrated with IV fluids, but if you don't start eating, you aren't going to get better. We can't do TPN here; and while I could drop an NG tube and feed you that way, I'd much rather not if you can take nutrition orally."  
  
"I'll try," Luka sighed. He'd say anything if she'd just leave him alone.  
  
"Good. I'll let the kitchen know, and have Gillian bring you something. Maybe some soup?"  
  
"It doesn't matter." Why wouldn't she just let him sleep?  
  
Angelique frowned. "Luka; what you experienced was horrible-- I can't even imagine it, and I've seen a lot in my six years here -- but it _is_ over. You're going to get better, but not if you don't try."  
  
Another sigh. "I'm just tired, Angelique. I'm just ... so tired ... and I hurt ...."  
  
"Ok. You try to sleep for a few hours, until Gillian brings you your lunch."  
  
Despite his words, and the overwhelming fatigue that weighed on him, Luka didn't sleep right away. Instead he lay there thinking -- trying to fit the confusion of images and memories -- like a broken jigsaw puzzle -- together into a coherant picture. Why hadn't he died? He was so sure that he had. There had been pain, so much pain, for such a long time. He had prayed, over and over, asking God to end it, to take him away from the pain. And he remembered, finally, slipping -- sliding into a darkness where, at last, no pain waited for him -- and knowing that it was death -- being glad that it was death. So why was he still here? 


	14. Chapter 14

A hand was shaking him gently. "Luka, wake up!" He opened his eyes to see Gillian smiling broadly down at him. "Lunchtime!" she announced cheerfully. "We have beef -rice soup, toast, and tea."   
  
Luka shut his eyes again wearily. "Come on, Luka," Gillian said. "You promised Angelique you'd try to eat something."  
  
"I know." The words came out as a sigh.  
  
Using several pillows to prop him up, Gillian helped him to sit up a little, and, after letting the dizziness pass, she set the tray over his lap. "This does look good," she said, still smiling, and picked up the spoon.   
  
She was going to feed him, Luka realized, horrified. Like he was a baby. "No," he said quickly. "I... can do it myself." Taking the spoon from her he almost dropped it, then managed to tighten his grip. But he just toyed with it, stirring the soup and looking at it without appetite. He also noticed, for the first time, the bandages on his wrists, stained with pinkish serum. What was underneath the bandages? (His wrists ached dully, but so did everything else, except the parts that throbbed, or just plain hurt.)   
  
"Come on, Luka," Gillian said again. "You need to eat."  
  
Luka sighed, and tasted a spoonful of the soup. Then he put the spoon down. "I can't."  
  
"Are you nauseous?"  
  
"No... just not hungry." He knew he should be hungry. How long had it been since he'd had anything to eat?   
  
"Then you need to try and get it down. I know it isn't cordon bleu ... or even Campbell's, but it's pretty good. The folks in the kitchen really knocked themselves out for you."  
  
Picking up the spoon once more, Luka managed to choke down a couple of spoons of soup, and he took a bite of toast, then he weakly tried to push the tray away, and let his head sink back into the pillow. "I can't ..." he said again, shaking his head. "Please...."  
  
"All right, maybe a little later." Gillian took the tray away and settled Luka back down into bed.  
  
Luka focused his eyes on a crack in the ceiling. "Gillian?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Were you.... Angelique said you came to Matenda.... found me?"  
  
"That's right. We were worried. We'd heard about the fighting in the area, and when we couldn't get in touch with you by radio, we came out to see if you were ok."  
  
"There were others being held prisoner with me .... Patrique and Chance ... and Sakina ... and some others ..." he trailed off and Gillian nodded. "What happened to them?"  
  
Gillian took a deep breath. "They were ... ummm ... all killed -- shot. When we found you, we thought at first that you were dead too. You were barely breathing."  
  
"Wasn't sure if it was a dream or not."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I heard shots ... and screams ... I couldn't move ... couldn't see what was happening. I must have passed out ... because when I woke up ... it was so quiet ... the Mai Mai had gone. Everyone else seemed to have ... gone too ... I didn't know ... thought maybe I'd dreamed it all." A faint smile. "I know some of what I thought had happened must have been a dream ... like when I thought I died ... guess that was just a dream ...."  
  
"Must have been," agreed Gillian. "Since you aren't dead."  
  
"But Patrique is?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And Chance, and Sakina?"  
  
A hesitation. "We found Chance's body. But not Sakina's. They may have left her in the jungle somewhere ...."  
  
"Or they took her with them." How long would they have kept her with them... used her... until they tired of her ... or used her up?

_The room was gone -- vivid images flashed before Luka's eyes -- seemd to seize his body._  
  
Sakina being dragged from the clinic, wide eyed, knowing what awaited her ... then sitting huddled on the cot, looking at him with frightened eyes as he was ... oh God ... no ... it was a dream ... it was just a dream .... hands pulling his trousers and his shorts down over his hips, to his knees ... men laughing, making jokes, ("Not much of a man, is he?") and then, the sensation sharper now than when it had happened (but no... it hadn't happened! it had only been a nightmare, part of his delirium....) because the pain was no longer masked by overwhelming agony elsewhere in his body -- the feeling of them forcing themselves into his body, tearing him apart ... ripping him open ... trying to hurt him, to make him scream -- but he hadn't had the strength to scream ... or had he? Maybe he had been screaming inside. He could remember screaming. Or maybe he had just dreamed that part too. And when he'd thought it was over, that they were finished with him, it would start over again, with a different body on top of his, inside of his ... and he was sobbing, helpless to stop himself. He had thought the pain would be easier the second time, and the third ... but it wasn't. It never got easier ... and there was a sticky wetness that wasn't blood ... or maybe it was blood too ... running down his thigh ...  
  
Nausea overwhelmed him. Luka suddenly gagged, and Gillian rushed to turn him, just before he vomited onto the floor. There wasn't much there, just a little soup, but he retched and heaved long after there was nothing left, not even bile.  
  
When he was done, and was weak and trembling with exhaustion, Gillian helped him to settle down again onto his back.   
  
"Sorry," he said faintly.  
  
"It's ok. It's my fault for making you eat when you said you weren't hungry. I'll go get a mop and clean it up."  
  
"No!" Luka said desperately. "Please ... don't leave me alone."  
  
"I'll just be a minute, I promise."  
  
Gillian hurried out and, as sudden as the nausea had come a moment before, tears and harsh, wrenching sobs came. They shook his whole body, making his leg hurt, and his chest. His head throbbed. He scarcely heard the footsteps as Gillian returned, but he heard the clatter as she dropped the mop (or was it gunshots?) and then she was holding his hand and saying "It's ok, Luka... it's ok... you're safe now...." And Luka stiffened at her touch, and suddenly couldn't bear for her to be there, to let her see him like this.  
  
"No!" he gasped. "Please... leave me alone... go away... please?"  
  
"Luka?" He could hear the hurt in her voice, but it didn't touch him.  
  
"Please?" he said again. "Just go away...."  
  
"Ok." A sigh. "You're tired. You get some rest." She kissed his cheek and, after quickly mopping up the mess on the floor, left him alone.  
  
And Luka cried until exhaustion finally carried him away into sleep again. 


	15. Chapter 15

Luka drifted awake. He hurt. Why did he hurt so much? He felt chilly, feverish, ill. But he had to... 

He tried to sit up, to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, but his body didn''t seem to be working -- what was wrong? What was happening?

A familiar face was there, and hands were pressing him gently but firmly back onto the bed. Carter. "No, Luka. You can't get up. Don't try to get up."

Everything was still confused. "_Moram_ ..." no... that was Croatian. Carter didn't understand Croatian. How did he say it in English? "I need ... I have to ... use ... the bathroom ..." he said.

Carter smiled. "Ok. But you can't get out of bed. Do you need a bedpan or a urinal?"

And the fog cleared a little. He was in the hospital -- in Kisangani. A patient, not a doctor. And he had been ... and Carter was still looking down at him, smiling, encouraging, but with a little bit of worry in his eyes. And Luka couldn't bear it.

"No!" he said. "I can ... walk. If you'll just ... help me stand..."

"You can't, Luka. You have a broken leg, remember?"

"Then I can wait until I can be up on crutches."

Carter's smile widened. Luka sensed that he was trying not to laugh. "You can't wait that long." Then he sobered and asked gently, "Do you want me to get one of the nurses to help you?"

Luka nodded numbly. He was shaking again, but it wasn't from the fever. If someone had to see him so helpless; help him with such a basic thing, such an intimate thing, better it be a virtual stranger. "But not ... Gillian."

"Of course. I'll go see who's around."

Luka lay back on the pillow and tried to stop his trembling. But he suddenly remembered. He'd been here for what ... a week now? (What day was it now? He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep this time.) He had been unconscious or asleep most of the time. He couldn't remember having used a bedpan yet. He couldn't have had a foley ... they didn't use them here. They simply put absorbant pads under the patients who were unconscious, or too ill to use a bedpan, and changed them when they were wet or soiled. And Gillian and Carter would have been the ones doing that for him. (The few hospital nurses were usually far too busy for such routine tasks -- they were left to the patient's family members. Since he had no family here, Carter and Gillian appeared to be tending him in that way.) The thought of Gillian and Carter caring him like that ... touching him like that ... he knew he shouldn't mind ... there was nothing he could do about it, and certainly nothing wrong with it .. he _was_ a patient, and they were doctors and nurses ... but his stomach turned. He saw Gillian's eyes looking at him yesterday (had it been yesterday?), and her hands and her voice; gentle, kind -- too gentle, too kind -- treating him like he was a child. A frightened child. Did she really believe that was what he was? Had he been behaving that way? He could be stronger, braver. He knew he could be.

Riette, one of the hospital nurses was there. "Dr. Luka? Dr. John asked me to help you use the urinal?" And Luka just nodded miserably and allowed her to help him.

When he had finished the whole humiliating business and Riette had left, Carter came back into the room. "Better?" he asked, cheerfully.

"Yeah." Luka looked out the window. It was raining again. "I'm sorry. That was stupid. Trying to get up, I mean. I knew about my leg."

"No, you probably didn't. Not just then. You're still pretty out of it, Luka. It's only been a week, less than that actually, since we brought you in. You're still spiking fevers from the malaria and the infection in your leg, and we've got you on some heavy duty pain meds. If anything, I'm surprised you've been lucid at all."

Luka just nodded. Even as Carter spoke the words, the fatigue was starting to come back. Why couldn't he stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time? Why was just thinking, talking, so draining? Could it really just be the pain meds and the fever? But he gathered the energy to ask, "How am I doing? Honest answer."

"Honest answer; you're doing very well. When we found you, I didn't think you had much of a chance. You'd been out there a long time; you were pretty far gone; dehydration, massive infection, shock. But Angelique did some impressive work, and you are one tough customer. You still have a long way to go; it's going to take time for all the broken bones to mend, and your leg is still iffy ... but you're making excellent progress. If you continue to do well, sometime next week we should be able to fly you home. County isn't the Ritz, but it will be more comfortable than this."

"So, I'm going to live."

It wasn't a question, but Carter seemed to treat it as one. He smiled and said, "Yes, you're going to live."

Luka knew the confirmation should make him happy. Make him feel -- something. But it didn't. And it wasn't just because of the exhaustion that was pressing on him again. It just didn't seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter. But, for Carter's sake, he managed to smile and say. "Thank you. Then he closed his eyes. "I need to sleep now." And he did.


	16. Chapter 16

The morning was dragging by. It had been better, Luka thought, when he'd been too sick and out-of-it to do little but sleep. Carter and Gillian had been pulled away to help with an influx of injured refugees, leaving Luka with nothing to do but lie in bed and think. He would have liked to have slept again, but after a week of sleeping, his body could no longer find such easy refuge in sleep. Now he could only lie here, and think about his pain, and remember. And it was much too much like before ... when he had only been able to lie there and think about his far worse pain. Not that sleep was much better, really. Nightmares were invading his sleep now ... memories, images. Horrors.  
  
Luka tried to turn his thoughts to something more pleasant. Danijela ... he could always trust that memory to make him smile. Then another memory. Or was it another dream? Luka rolled over slightly (he was still pretty much immobile due to his leg) and started to rummage franctically through his few possessions stacked neatly in a box beside the bed. Some clothes, a few books (not that he had the concentration to read). His passport. A half-empty pack of cigarettes. All things that he'd left behind in Kisangani when he'd gone to Matenda. Things he hadn't needed there. Where was it?  
  
The door opened, and Gillian came in, smiling as always. She carried a basin of water and a work box. "Sorry to have kept you, Luka."  
  
"Where's my wallet?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"My wallet! I should have had it with me in Matenda. In my pocket." Luka tried to keep the panic out of his voice.  
  
"We had to cut your clothes off of you, and we didn't keep the scraps. But your pockets were empty. I know they were. And the Mai Mai took all your things from the tent."  
  
And the memory came back yet again; he felt a hand taking his wallet from his pocket, heard the rustling as someone rifled through it.   
  
It didn't matter, he told himself. It was just a picture. He had other copies of it at home. And he didn't really need the physical picture any more, did he? He'd long ago memorized every bit of it ... could describe it in the finest detail to anyone who might listen. But still... what had _they_ done with it? Was it lying, crumpled and trampled in the jungle? Perhaps they'd used it for kindling? Had they looked at the picture? Laughed? Made comments to each other about Danijela? About Jasna? The same kinds of comments they had made about Sakina? About himself? ... No ... Luka shuddered. Or had they just taken the money from the wallet (not that Congolese money was worth anything... even in the Congo ...), and ignored everything else?  
  
"What is it, Luka? What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing..." Luka sighed. "It's ok. I was just wondering what happened to it."  
  
"Ok then," Gillian went on brightly. "Several things on the agenda this morning. "A bath, then I need to clean and redress some of the wounds, and then, if you're not too tired when we're done with all that, you can definitely use a shave." She rubbed her hand against his chin and made a face as her hand scraped over the bristles, then smiled at him, obviously expecting some sort of response.  
  
Luka nodded obligingly. "Yeah... that's fine."  
  
"Let's do your bath first," Gillian decided, laying her hand against his forehead. "You feel warm, and it'll make you feel better. "It's really hot today."  
  
"It's the Congo, Gillian. It's always hot."  
  
"Still, you'll be more comfortable after a sponge-down and a fresh, dry gown." Before Luka could reply, she'd reached behind him and untied the strings of his gown.  
  
"I can do my own bath," Luka said sharply.  
  
"I don't mind doing it. I am a nurse, you know."  
  
"But I mind!" Why didn't he want her touching him? They'd been lovers, for God's sake. Why was the thought of her touching him now so unbearable? "Just... help me sit up. Then I can do it myself."  
  
"All right." The doubt was still clear in her eyes and voice, but Gillian helped him to sit and slipped his gown off his shoulders. Setting the basin of water where he could reach it easily, she handed him the sponge -- and turned her back.  
  
After struggling on for a while, Luka had to admit defeat. He was simply too weak. There were too many bandages. His left arm was still immobilized in a sling, the right one oddly clumsy and stiff (perhaps it was from the bandages on his wrist). The array of vivid bruises and sores on his chest and abdomen alarmed him more than he cared to admit and, when he reached down to push the sheet away so he could wash his legs, Gillian quickly stopped him. "No, we'll do your legs later, after I change the bandages."   
  
When, after a few frustrating minutes, Luka let the sponge drop from his hand, and let his head sink back, exhausted, onto the pillow, she asked gently, "Can I finish up?" he just nodded helplessly. Quickly, efficiently, she sponged his neck, his chest, his stomach. "Ok, lean forward into me," she said and, supporting his weight, washed his back. After patting him dry with a towel, she put a clean hospital gown over his arms and tied it.  
  
"Better?" she asked.  
  
"Yeah." Luka said. But it wasn't better. When was it all going to end? When was it going to get better ... or when was he going to at least be able to bear it all?  
  
"Ok. Now I need to change the bandages on your wrists." She hesitated. "I think you'll want to be lying down again."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I don't think you'll want to look."  
  
"I'm a doctor, Gillian. I'm sure I've seen worse."  
  
"It can be different when it's yourself."  
  
"Just do it." Luka took a deep breath. He could be brave. _This_ he could bear.  
  
Gillian nodded, and unwrapped the bandages (they would be sterilized and reused), then removed the wet, bloody gauze pads from Luka's left wrist and forearm. And, in spite of himself, Luka gasped and swallowed back nausea. Even after a week, the sores were still raw, still weeping blood and serum. Perhaps he was imaging it, but he thought he could see white bone. But he made himself watch as Gillian spread antibiotic ointment over the deepest sores.  
  
"It looks much worse than it is," she said, "And the other arm isn't as bad as this one. The infection is just about cleared up. You may need some skin grafts after you get home, to minimize the scarring, but they should heal up just fine."  
  
Luka didn't trust himself to answer -- couldn't think of anything to say.  
  
After rebandaging the wrist, Gillian took a syringe from her work box.  
  
"What's that?" asked Luka.  
  
"Six of morphine."  
  
"It didn't hurt that much. And you said the other hand isn't as bad."  
  
"After we do your wrists I need to work on your leg. That _will_ hurt. And we need to give the morphine time to work." She injected the drug into his IV, then quickly cleaned and dressed the other wrist. It was, as she'd said, not quite as bad as the left ... but it was bad enough.  
  
"Ok," she went on. "Let's lie you down again." Her meaning was much too clear. She did not want him sitting up where he could see his leg.  
  
"I want to see." He had to know ... know what had been torturing him for so long. It couldn't be worse than seeing, again and again, the Mai Mai breaking his leg in the first place.  
  
"Luka..."  
  
"It's my leg!"  
  
Gillian sighed and turned back the sheet, and lifted the blood-soaked bandage that covered his leg from hip to ankle. Luka felt the blood drain from his face and couldn't keep from gasping "Oh God..."  
  
There was an open wound, as wide across as his hand, stretching from mid-thigh halfway down his calf. It oozed blood and pus. The edges of the wound, reaching another inch or so into the muscle, were blackened -- necrotic tissue -- gangrene.  
  
Luka swallowed bile and said faintly, "I think Angelique needs to debride that again."  
  
"She's going to. A little later. She's tied up in surgery right now. That's why she asked me to clean it up for you."  
  
Even with the morphine, and with Gillian working as rapidly as she could, the simple act of clearing away the pus and debris from the wound was agony -- Luka's clean gown was drenched through with fresh sweat long before she was done. But still, somehow, Luka found this easier to bear than the simpler forms of care. He could accept that he needed medical care, treatment. What he couldn't seem to accept was that he needed help to care for himself in the most basic of ways. That he couldn't dress himself or wash himself, or use the bathroom. That simply eating a meal left him exhausted beyond belief.  
  
Finally it was done. Gillian covered his leg with a fresh bandage, and then with a clean, dry sheet. "We'll re-make the bed later, when you're feeling a little better. Or maybe when you're down in surgery." You get some rest now."   
  
Luka was exhausted, trembling, but he said, "I thought I needed a shave."  
  
"That can wait until tomorrow. I need to get back to the wards. They're really swamped."  
  
"Just leave the shave kit. I can do it myself ... a little later."  
  
"No, we'll do it tomorrow. I can help you then."  
  
"Please, Gillian. I can do it. Really. I just need to rest a while first."  
  
"I don't want you to cut yourself."  
  
"I won't." A weak smile. "I've been shaving myself for a good 20 years now. I think I know how to do it."  
  
"We'll see. We'll talk about it later." Gillian said. She settled him back down in bed and kissed him. "You get some sleep while you can. Angelique will want to work on your leg again as soon as she has time."  
  
Luka could only nod again. He was helpless. No matter what he wanted, what he asked for, what he hoped for ... someone else always had the last word, the final say. It had been true in Matenda ... all those horrible days ... and it was still true now. He was even powerless against the sleep that now dragged at his body, fogged his mind. And he would be powerless against the dreams that would come to him while he slept. 


	17. Chapter 17

Luka's eyes flew open. What had wakened him? The pain? It was no worse than usual; maybe even a little better, since Angelique had debrided his leg again, and his other wounds were, slowly, healing.   
  
He was alone in his room, and the hospital seemed quiet. It was the middle of the night. Outside the window it was dark, his own room was lit dimly only by a single 20 watt bulb. But it _was_ pain that had wakened him. He was shaking, drenched in sweat again. He was reacting to pain, the adrenaline response he'd seen in his own patients a thousand times over the years. Pain and terror.   
  
A boot flying towards his face -- the audible crack as it met -- and broke -- bone. Blood running down his face, down his throat, to meet the blood that was already in his lungs -- drowning him. And then a steadier pain, his entire body hurt -- he was drowning again, but not in blood. He was drowning in pain. It never left him, never changed, but was simply part of him -- part of his existence -- like air, like light, like life. No, not _part_ of his existence. His only existence. He wasn't alive. No body, no soul. His soul had disappeared, swallowed up in a sea of agony. But neither was he dead. If he were dead, like the corpses that surrounded him, there would be no pain at all. And he heard his voice calling out, over and over again, praying, hoping, but having long ago lost all hope_ "Please God _... _make it stop ... I can't ... no more ... take me ... Danijela ... oh God!"_  
  
It had only been a few days, but how many times had he had the same dreams? How many times would the same memories invade his sleep? It was bad enough to have had to experience it all once. How many times would have had to relive it? A dozen more times? A thousand? He couldn't. He couldn't. Not again.  
  
The door opened, and Carter came in. "Luka? You awake?"  
  
"Yeah...."  
  
"Are you ok? Riette said she heard you crying."  
  
_"No_!" I wasn't crying." Luka's answer came quickly. But he was startled. _Had_ he been crying? His face was wet ... oh God ... were they tears? Could Carter see them? The room was pretty dark, and he was still standing by the door ... maybe he couldn't tell. If he wiped them away quickly -- but no, the gesture alone would give the game away. Luka turned his head so Carter couldn't see his face. "I'm fine."  
  
Carter nodded and picked up Luka's chart. He seemed to be studying it. Luka used the distraction to wipe the back of his hand over his cheek. Maybe they hadn't been tears. The night was hot ... the dream ... it could have just been sweat.  
  
"If you're in pain," Carter said, "I can get you something for it. We're trying to wean you off the heavier pain meds and sedation, but if it makes things too rough, we can go more slowly. There's no hurry here."  
  
"I'm not in pain. It was just a dream. I think I'm spiking again." Luka put a shaky smile on his face. "Malaria's a real bitch, you know."  
  
Another nod, and Carter touched the backs of his fingers briefly to Luka's forehead -- a gesture that made Luka shudder again. It wasn't the sort of gesture that a doctor would use, or even a nurse. It was more like a father -- or a mother -- with a small child. "Maybe," Carter agreed. "You're a little warm." But he didn't sound convinced. Then he sighed and pulled the chair close to the bed and sat down. "Luka ... this is ok ... what you're going through right now. It's normal. You're having a rough time of it.You're in a lot of pain ..."  
  
"I told you, I'm fine!" Luka snapped. "I'm doing fine. I'm getting better. I'm tough, remember?"  
  
"Yeah... you are. But you also experienced something that must have been ... hell."  
  
Luka shut his eyes quickly. Hell. Yes, that was what it had been. But he hadn't been dead. Was hell worse when you were dead, or when you were alive? But he said, "I don't remember ... not much anyway. They beat me up. And I was so sick from the malaria, I guess I passed out pretty quickly. They probably hit my head. Angelique says I have a concussion, right? Because after that, I don't remember anything until I woke up here."  
  
"Luka," Carter said gently, "That isn't what you told us before."  
  
"I lied before .... or it must've been dreams that I was remembering. I've been having a lot of dreams. I was probably delirious. The drugs ... the fever." Luka could sense hysteria coming into his voice again. He couldn't talk about it any more. What more might slip out if he talked about it any more? He shut his eyes. "I'm tired ... I need to sleep again. It is still night, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, it's about 4 a.m."  
  
"Well... I'm tired then." He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at Carter. "You look tired too. You should sleep." Carter looked like hell, Luka thought; exhausted, worried, worn down. Between caring for him as both doctor and nurse, and helping around the hospital, when had he been sleeping? For just an instant, a flicker of something -- was it guilt? stirred the deadness in Luka's spirit. Why was Carter doing this? Why had he risked his life to save him? It wasn't as if they had been close friends before. Carter was being a good friend now ... and he was being ... ungrateful? Luka pushed the feeling away and shut his eyes again. "I'm going to rest now."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want something for the pain? It's been a while since your last dose."  
  
"No, I'm fine. I just need to sleep."  
  
"Ok. I'll see you in the morning, then." Carter rested a hand, briefly, on Luka's arm, then went out.  
  
'I don't remember anything.... ' but Luka suddenly remembered his dream. He remembered screaming, crying out ... and yes, sobbing ... and he knew -- he heard himself -- and knew that he'd been speaking aloud, even in his sleep. "_Oh God ... no more ... take me ... please ... I can't ..."_ Sometimes he had cried out in Croatian, but sometimes it had been in English. Had Carter heard? Had Carter heard all the other times he had had that same dream? And all the other dreams?   
  
Carter couldn't know. Nobody could know. Nobody could ever know what he had been through. That he had been weak ... that the Mai Mai had taken from him, not only his possessions, his picture .... perhaps his ability to walk ... maybe his leg ... and very nearly his life ... but his courage. They couldn't know.   
  
But they did know. They had to know. Why else would they be treating him this way? It wasn't just that he was ill, that he was hurt. He had been ill other times in his life, injured. And his doctors had never treated him like a small child. _He_ would never treat an adult patient like they were treating him.  
  
He could be stronger. He _would_ be stronger.  
  
But he wouldn't sleep. Not right now. He couldn't face the dreams again ... quite yet. 


	18. Chapter 18

He couldn't escape the dreams. He had to sleep; his weakness, his injuries, his pain meds made certain of that. And every time he slept, the dreams were there. Over and over again he relived it ... and experienced things that hadn't happened at all. He knew they hadn't happened. Some things he could bear ... but not those.  
  
His waking hours, comparatively few though they still were, were their own nightmare. Gillian seemed to be always there, always smiling. Coddling him, treating him like a child. And Carter, also always cheerful, friendly. Luka knew he meant well, was trying to help, but he couldn't bear it.  
  
Only Angelique's company seemed bearable. She was always quiet, firm, encouraging and honest. Not trying to be a mother or a buddy, but simply his doctor. Never seemed to have much to say, unlike Gillian and Carter who seemed to be afraid of silence, afraid to leave him with his own thoughts -- not that they ever had anything very constructive to say. How much could you say about the weather in a place where every day was hot -- every day was rainy? But there was nothing else to talk about. Nothing else he could bear to talk about. And, of course, there was the pain, the boredom, the endless hours in bed. Angelique was hopeful that he would be able to go home within the week, but she couldn't promise anything.  
  
--------  
  
"_Ne ... ne ... molim ..."_ Hands holding him, pressing his face into the dirt, sobs making his chest hurt, his own ribs stabbing into his lungs ... and a deeper pain ... "_No! ... Oh God ... please ... no more ... make it stop ... make them stop ... let me die!" _

__  
Then gentle hands shaking him. "Luka! Wake up. Come on, Luka, open your eyes."  
  
And he was in his hospital bed in Kisangani. Angelique was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his hand, smiling down at him. "That's right. You're awake now." She brushed the damp hair back from his forehead. (He needed a haircut, Luka thought dimly -- then wondered why he'd thought of that just now.)  
  
"I'm ok," he said. "It was just ... a nightmare." His voice still shook.  
  
"A pretty bad one, I'd say." Angelique's tone was light, but her eyes were watching him, concerned.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Do you want to tell me about it?"  
  
"There's nothing to talk about. It was just a dream. It's over now. I'm awake."  
  
"You've had that same dream several times," Angelique said carefully. "It makes you talk in your sleep. I think it would help you to tell me about it." Luka didn't answer. He turned his face and looked at the wall, ignoring the stab of pain the movement sent through his still-tender left shoulder -- almost enjoying the pain, since it helped distract him, for a brief moment, from the memory of the dream, and from what Angelique was saying to him. Why was she bringing this up now? He'd been dreaming for days.  
  
"Luka, listen to me. I haven't been pressing you to talk about what happened to you, because I wanted you to focus on getting well physically first. And you have been doing that. Physically, you are doing very well; making excellent progress. But if you are to keep getting well, you are going to have to start dealing with the emotional side of the experience, and that means talking about it. These dreams are exhausting you, keeping you from getting the rest you need, and that is starting to affect your recovery."  
  
"There's nothing to talk about! I told you ... I don't remember anything."   
  
"I think you do."  
  
"I was sick. I had malaria. I was beaten up. That's all." He still couldn't look at her.  
  
"Is there someone you would rather talk to about this? John? Or Gillian? (Luka winced). Or the chaplain?"   
  
Luka shook his head and whispered, "No...." He was shaking again. "There is nothing to talk about. They're just dreams. They don't mean anything."  
  
"Luka," Angelique said quietly, and waited until he looked at her. Something about her voice made him look at her. "I know you are remembering more than you say. I know that you must have spent a great deal of time in unbelievable pain. And I know that you were raped." Her voice was very gentle, but the words struck into his gut with an unbearable agony. If nobody said it, if _he_ didn't say it ... it didn't happen, right?  
  
"No.... that isn't what happened."  
  
"You presented with injuries that were consistant with rape; with forcible anal penetration; injuries that really can't be explained any other way." Her voice was still calm, gentle; but very matter of fact.  
  
"Then come up with another explanation! You're smart enough. Because it didn't happen."  
  
"I can't change the facts, Luka, and you're smart enough to know _that_."  
  
For a long minute, neither one spoke. Finally Luka gathered his courage, or was it Angelique's? He had no courage left. "I wanted it... to be just a dream. I hoped that... if I told myself ... enough ... that it was a dream ... that it would be ...."  
  
"I know." Calm. Strong. Encouraging. Why was she so strong, and he so weak? But Luka found that he could draw the strength he needed from her to go on. Somehow he had to go on.   
  
"And I _had_ ... forgotten it. When it was happening ... I was trying ... so hard ... to not think about it ... to think of anything else ... to die ...." God, it was so hard to force out the words, but even harder to not say them. "I was already ... dying by then ... And then ... when it was over ... and I was lying there ... for so long ... and I was still dying ... waiting to die ... I don't remember ... thinking about it ... at all. It was like I'd ... forgotten."  
  
"I expect you had a lot of other things on your mind at the time," Angelique said lightly.  
  
"Just dying. I was just thinking about dying." Tears were streaming down his face now, though his voice was dull -- steady -- dead. "Oh God, Angelique ... why didn't I die? Why didn't God let me die?"   
  
"You didn't die because you are an amazingly strong person. You fought, and you survived. And the worst is over now. From now on, it just gets better. It's going to be slow, but it will get better, and you will get better."  
  
"Yeah...." Dim surprise stirred someplace inside him. He knew Angelique had never lied to him before. Why was she lying now? But the surprise was quickly lost under a wave of aching tiredness. Angelique looked at him a moment longer, then rose.  
  
"Ok. You just get some rest. Someone should be by with your supper soon."  
  
But he didn't want her to leave. Not just yet. There was something else. Something else he had not let himselt think about, but that he had to think about now. He forced himself to stay awake and asked, "How's the leg looking?"  
  
"About the same."  
  
"Hurts like hell."  
  
"I know. I'd give you more pain meds if I could." She smiled at him and started for the door.  
  
"Angelique," Luka said abruptly, but very quietly.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"They probably ... did kill me ... didn't they? Just ... a little more slowly."  
  
Angelique came back and sat down again. "I don't know, Luka. It's possible, but we can't know for sure yet." How many men were there?"  
  
Luka's eyes were closed. So he wouldn't have to look at Angelique, or so she couldn't see the depth of his pain ... his fear? "I ... I'm not ... sure. There were five soldiers ... beating me. I think they all .... (God... he wasn't going to vomit again, he wasn't!) but I'm not sure. I was trying ... not to notice."   
  
Angelique took a deep breath. "Given the incidence rate in the area, and what happened to you -- the amount of violence used -- the chance of infection is pretty high. But it's by no means a sure thing. There's no point in testing now, it's still too early for the test to be accurate, and we don't have ARVs to start treatment anyway. But as soon as Dr. Carter gets you home to Chicago, you can test and start ARV therapy. With luck you'll be negative now, and still negative in six months. And, if not ... treatment can still keep you healthy and alive for a very long time." She again squeezed his hand and then hurried out.  
  
Healthy and alive ... thought Luka. And every time he took his pills, he would have to remember why he was taking them ... This was supposed to be better than being dead?  
  
Exhaustion weighed on him, but Luka didn't sleep. He just lay and stared at the ceiling until Gillian brought him his supper.


	19. Chapter 19

"Supper!" Gillian's cheerful voice again. "Looks good today; plantains, toast and chicken."  
  
"Yeah ... so good I've had it for three days in a row." The food wasn't any better for the patients than for the staff. Starchy, bland and repetitive. The patients did get a little more protein, though; meat or eggs at least one meal a day. "But I'm not hungry."  
  
"You need to eat," Gillian reminded him. "Doctor's orders."  
  
"I always do." A lie. But he did always go through the motions, and Gillian was sometimes fooled by the charade. Luka kept his eyes on the meal tray as Gillian helped him to sit up. He couldn't bear to look at her, to see the pity that he knew would be in her eyes. It had been there all along of course, but he now knew _why _ it was there. The idea that he might have to see pity in her eyes today nauseated him, even more than the thought of trying to force down the plantains and toast again, even more than her touch.  
  
He picked at the food without appetite, while Gillian kept up her usual running, one-sided conversation. The weather, bits of gossip from around the hospital. And, as usual, Luka didn't listen. His head ached. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone? Then Gillian said, a bit sharply, "Luka?" and he realized that she had asked him a question.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Who's Danijela?"  
  
"Why do you ask?" Luka felt his muscles tense; his grip tightened on the fork.  
  
"I was just wondering. You talk about her sometimes ... in your sleep."  
  
"Danijela's ... my wife." _Why_ did the question bother him so much? He didn't usually mind talking about Danijela, and he should be glad that Gillian was talking about something about bit more profound than the weather for once; something that might actually distract him from the horror that his life had become. But it felt too much like an invasion of privacy.  
  
"Your wife?" Luka did look at her now, and, for a fraction of an instant, could have almost smiled at the shocked look that crossed her face. What had been the rumor? That Gillian didn't care if her conquests were married or not?  
  
"She's dead, Gillian. She's been dead for a long time." The momentary good humor vanished as quickly as it had come. Of course, if things had been different, he would have told her about Danijela, eventually. But for Gillian to have found out about her this way ... the same way she'd found out so much else about him. More of his dignity being stripped away. He shuddered. God ... he couldn't bear any more of this!  
  
"I'm sorry, Luka." Gillian said softly, obviously misinterpreting the look of pain that must have crossed his own face.  
  
"What for? You didn't kill her." No ... you didn't kill her, he thought bitterly, I did.  
  
And suddenly another memory. An older memory ... a beautiful, dark haired girl with luminous eyes (not much older than Jasna would have been, had she lived); eyes filled with grief and anger. "Do you believe in God? Do you believe He punishes people?" And her hands ... she had had such small hands, clasping his as she had prayed; seeking and finding comfort. The comfort he had been unable to find.  
  
Of course. The realization struck him in an instant. He was being punished. He had saved so many lives, but they could never make up for the deaths ... far too many deaths. Danijela and Jasna and Marko. And Rick. And now Patrique and Chance and Sakina. And countless patients, faceless and nameless now after so many lives ... so many deaths ... so many years. So many who were dead because he had not done enough; acted quickly enough or decisively enough. Because he had failed. Those deaths could never be forgiven.   
  
"Luka?" Concern in Gillian's voice. "Are you falling asleep on me?"  
  
Luka realized that several minutes had passed, and the fork had dropped from his hand.  
  
"Yeah ... I'm tired." His voice sounded husky. Fatigue, not tears, he told himself. He was not going to cry. Not in front of Gillian. Never again.  
  
"Let's try to finish this up first, then you can sleep. You've hardly eaten anything today." Gillian picked up the fork, speared a bit of chicken and held it to his mouth. "Just a few more bites, Luka."  
  
Luka looked from the fork to Gillian's face, where the pity had feared to see was clear in her eyes, the pity he knew he so richly deserved, and suddenly anger flared -- stronger than the exhaustion, the bitterness, the fear, even the pain. His hand flew up and struck at Gillian's wrist. He lacked the strength to hit very hard, but the surprise was enough. He knocked the fork from her grasp and it spun across the room and clattered onto the floor. A moment later, as Gillian was holding her hand, her eyes wide with shock, Luka sent the rest of the tray after it, listening with satisfaction to the startling crash as the dishes hit the wall, and then the floor. The only disappointment was that everything was made of metal and plastic, so nothing actually broke.   
  
"Get out!" he said. There were no tears, no self-pity; just overwhelming, incomprehensible fury at the unfairness of it all. "Just get out, and leave me alone -- and don't come back!"  
  
"Luka ... I know ..."  
  
"Like hell you do! Get out of here!" If there had been anything else within easy reach, Luka knew he would have thrown it -- at her.   
  
"All right. Let me just clean this up."  
  
"Leave it!"  
  
As quickly as it had come, the anger left him, leaving behind the reaction -- exhaustion so overpowering that Luka could scarcely breath. His head pounded, his whole body shook, he could feel his heart racing. He was going to faint. Gillian must not see ... must not know this either. Luka didn't dare try to speak again. He knew that if words came out at all (and he wasn't sure he could even manage that), that his voice would tremble, break.  
  
He could only pray that Gillian would do as he had asked, because he was powerless to ask her again, much less make her obey. Luka's eyes were closed, though his vision had been so blurred in the moment before he had closed them that he doubted he could see much anyway. He heard Gillian sigh, and the slight rustle of the bedding as she rose.  
  
"Ok, Luka. You're tired. You get some sleep. Ring if you need anything."  
  
Luka didn't answer and, after a moment, footsteps, and the door opening and closing again. He was alone. He couldn't lie down again, make himself comfortable for sleep without assistance, but he was so tired that it didn't matter. He let his head sink back onto the pillows and, in moments, was sound asleep. And the dreams were waiting for him.   
  
-----  
  
Pain woke him. Real pain. When Luka opened his eyes, he knew that he had been dreaming, the usual dreams, but the throbbing ache in his leg was very real, and strong enough to pull him from sleep. And it had been what had awakened him this time. Then he remembered; he usually got his evening meds, including a shot of morphine after supper. Unless someone had come in after he was asleep, he hadn't gotten it. He also needed the urinal; something else he hadn't taken care of before falling asleep.  
  
He looked at the bell on the bedside table. He could ring, and someone would come. They would give him his pain shot, and bring the urinal. But who would come? Gillian? Carter? Sometimes Angelique answered the bell if she was around and not too busy. Or maybe one of the other nurses. But it was the middle of the night, Luka knew that either Carter or Gillian would answer. If Angelique wasn't asleep, she was busy in surgery. Could he risk it? Would Gillian have believed him? He _couldn't_ see her ... he just couldn't. Carter ... maybe he could bear Carter's help right now. Did he have any choice? Did he have any choice in any of it?  
  
Luka hit the bell, and as soon as the sound filled the room, regretted it. He could cope with the pain. And he could hold it ...  
  
The door opened even before the echo had faded. Carter. "What do you need, Luka?" Warm and sympathetic.  
  
"My leg hurts."  
  
Carter looked at his chart. "No wonder. It looks like Gillian didn't give you your 8 o:clock pain shot. I'll get that for you .. and chew her out for it."  
  
"Wasn't her fault." Luka said quietly.   
  
"Ok. Do you need anything else while I'm getting that?"  
  
"Yeah ... water pitcher's empty." Luka shut his eyes wearily. "And I need the urinal." God... why was it always so hard to ask for that? No -- he knew now why it was so hard to ask for that. And knowing didn't make it any easier, wouldn't make the actual process of using it any easier. At least he was a little stronger now, didn't need quite so much help any more. Once Carter brought him the urinal, he could do what he had to do without help, without anyone actually touching him. He couldn't ... they couldn't touch him any more. "When I am going to be able to get up? Get out of bed? If I can walk ... a few steps ... with crutches, I can at least use the bathroom."   
  
Carter sighed. "You're going to have to bring that up with Angelique. She's the boss. But it's going to be a while. You just aren't strong enough yet to manage crutches, and Angelique doesn't want to risk more damage to your leg by letting you move around much. Even transferring to a wheelchair would be tricky." A sigh. "I know this is frustrating for you, Luka."  
  
'Frustrating', thought Luka. 'Try humiliating. Agonizing.' But he said. "It's not getting any better, is it? My leg? I mean .. it should be ... we should be seeing improvement by now."  
  
Carter hesitated. "Talk to Angelique about it in the morning. She's your doctor."   
  
"You're a doctor too. You can read a chart."  
  
Carter raised an eyebrow. "You're a doctor too," he echoed, with a ghost of a smile. "You can read a chart." He tossed Luka's chart onto the bed. "Read it. I'll go get that stuff for you." He turned, and his eyes fell on the dinner tray that still littered the floor. The room was still dim, and Luka couldn't quite read Carter's expression, but he thought he saw amusement in his eyes. Gillian had obviously not mentioned his little tantrum. But had it been to protect him, or herself? "And then I'll clean that up."  
  
Carter left the room, and Luka slowly picked up the chart. He knew he could have asked for it at any time, and they would have let him see it. They had in fact, sometimes left it in easy reach, probably hoping that he _would_ read it. But he hadn't looked at it. What was he afraid of?   
  
Luka flipped through it; it was very thick, considering he'd been there less than two weeks. But he looked only at the numbers. Temps. Input/output. BP and pulse. All things he already knew. (They always told him his vitals when they took them, if he was awake.) He couldn't make himself read the text, the notes. Not yet. What _was_ he so afraid of? Did he fear to learn more new things about himself? Things that he would not let himself believe? Or that he would find out that they knew things he didn't? Or that they were hiding things from him? Sometimes maybe it was better not to know. It had surely been better not to know.   
  
No ... he was just tired, and in pain. He'd read it later, when he could concentrate better, make out the scribbles of Angelique's hen-scratchings. He set the chart back on the table, and waited for Carter. 


	20. Chapter 20

It had been closer to dawn than Luka had thought. By the time Carter had finished helping him with the urinal, had given him his missed meds, and had cleaned up the floor, the first light of morning was coming through the window, along with the street noises as Kisangani began to awaken for a new day. And the hospital was waking up too.   
  
There were voices ourside his door. His room, one of the few private rooms in the hospital (for the few patients who could actually afford them), opened directly onto one of the wards. He could hear the other patients stirring, nurses talking, quiet laughter from fathers and mothers and children of the patients. And he was alone. He could hear Carter's voice, talking quietly to one of the nurses.   
  
Carter would have stayed longer, he knew. While cleaning up the spilled meal tray, he had tried to engage Luka in conversation; he had been amused. "So ... what happened here, Luka?" His voice had been holding back laughter, but completely non- judgemental.   
  
Luka knew, somewhere inside, that Carter wasn't blaming him -- but he still felt the familiar door slam shut. "Nothing happened."   
  
Carter had tried again. "Got a little tired of plantains? Can't say I blame you. Can't stand the things myself."  
  
"I dropped it."  
  
And he had seen Carter's eyes measuring the space between the bed and wall. "You dropped it? Six feet? Horizontally?" He'd grinned and shook his head, wringing out the mop. He was laughing _with_ him ... Luka knew it. He knew Carter wanted so much to be laughing with him ... but he'd felt himself getting angry again. He fought to control his anger.  
  
"I dropped it, Carter. Now I suggest you do the same." He'd shut his eyes and fallen back on his familiar excuse. "I'm tired ... let me get some sleep."  
  
Carter had been silent a moment, but Luka could feel his eyes on him. "Luka ..."  
  
"Just leave me alone ... please. And I don't want any breakfast. I'm not hungry."   
  
"I'll see if the kitchen can scare up something better than plantains for you today."  
  
Luka didn't answer. He just waited, eyes closed, until Carter gave up and left him alone.   
  
God .... why was he doing this? Why was he pushing everyone away? He didn't have any family ... no wife, no children. No lover. But he could have friends. They cared about him. Why couldn't he bear to have them care about him? Why couldn't he bear to see them ... let them see him like this. Being alone, as hard as it was, was still easier to bear than pity.   
  
And he was alone again. The familiar warmth of the morphine was quieting the throbbing in his leg to a dull ache. Carter had settled him down into bed again, and he was comfortable, physically at least. It would be a simple matter now to go back to sleep. Despite the nightmares, sleep was still the simplest, if not the easiest way to make the empty hours pass quickly. And the faster the time passed, the sooner he would be able to go home ... be able to get out of bed ... be able to walk again. And, asleep, he didn't have to think. But he couldn't sleep.  
  
What was it that Carter had said? "You still aren't strong enough?" Had he known how true those words were? He was weak -- hopelessly weak, and it wasn't just the wounds, the broken bones. It wasn't even the malaria that still caused regular fever spikes, still drained his strength. It was himself, Luka Kovac. He had been weak from the start. Long before he ever came to The Congo, to Matenda. "Not much of a man, is he?" The Mai Mai had said that, and laughed. That had been true. They had known him, far better than he had ever known himself. He hadn't been much of a man. He could have been stronger ... should have been stronger. If he had been stronger, surely the Mai Mai wouldn't have singled him out. The others had just been shot. They hadn't been beaten ... tortured ... raped. The Mai Mai had known that _they_ wouldn't break ... wouldn't scream ... wouldn't cry. But he had done all those things.   
  
Even Angelique had been stronger than he. How had she made him talk? Talk about the things he couldn't even bear to think about? Now everyone would know. It was written in his chart. He didn't have to look to know that it was. What sorts of injuries had they found? Had they examined him? He had done rape exams on patients, women and men. Too many times. He knew what was involved. And he had seen their eyes, seen the look on their faces as they'd endured the exam ... knowing it was necessary, but knowing too (even as he'd known it, while doing it) that it was just one more violation. Had they discussed it among themselves? Discussed _him_, like he hadn't even been there? Had they looked for ... semen? No, after so much time, there wouldn't have been any. There would only have been the bruises, the tears ... and despite what Angelique had said, that _wasn't_ proof, it would have been only his word against hers. If he had denied it ... if he had been strong enough to have denied it, it would not have happened. He could have gone on believing that it had not happened. But she had made him talk. She had won. And so ... they had won.  
  
And he hadn't been able to protect Chance and Sakina ... God ... he hadn't even tried!   
  
He could still hear her screaming, begging for help, as they'd raped her ... but no, he hadn't heard that ... it was his own screams, his own pleas that he still heard, over and over, in his memory. Was she still alive somewhere, enduring what he had to endure now? Or had they finally killed her? Was she luckier than he?  
  
No, he probably couldn't have saved them, saved Chance's life or Sakina's body ... one unarmed man (if, indeed he even was a man...) against a dozen with guns. But he could have tried. Could have spoken out. What was the worst that would have happened? They would have killed him? Would that have been so bad? He would have died quickly. What was the saying? That a coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave die but once? How many times would he have to die? To wish himself dead? If he had been brave, he would be dead. But he was a coward. So he had survived.  
  
Even all those hours, all those days, when he thought he was hoping for death, praying for death, had he really been too afraid to let go? Had he been so afraid to die that he'd believed that life ... even this life ... was better? If only he had known ... But why else was he still alive?   
  
Unless this was some sort of punishment. God punishing him for all his failures ... for his very weakness. What could possibly be worse than to have to live with ... to remember ... for the rest of his life, what had happened to him. What the Mai Mai had done ... what he had _let_ them do. He could have stopped them ... he could have made them kill him ... he could have made himself die.   
  
But no ... he couldn't. He _had_ tried. He knew he had tried. But God hadn't let him. Just as the Mai Mai had toyed with him ... played with him ... been so careful to beat him in ways that wouldn't kill him too quickly ... had God also been playing with him? Letting him think all that time that he was about to die -- even that he _had_ died. The one bearable moment in all those hellish days -- the moment when he'd felt himself, at last, slipping into a painless darkness. But it hadn't been death at all, just more torment. A different kind of torment. Cat and mouse.  
  
He couldn't die. It might have happened before, but it wasn't going to happen now. He was going to survive. He wasn't going to live, but he would survive. And if he had to survive, he could try to be strong. There had to be, somewhere inside him, at least a little bit of strength, of courage. If there wasn't, how had he been able to fool himself, for so many years, into believing that he was strong ... brave. He couldn't fool himself anymore, he knew too much to be able to do that. But maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could fool the others.  
  
It was daylight now. More voices outside his door. More laughter, and then, from elsewhere in the room, wild sobs, and Carter was speaking softly, comforting someone. When he was dead, Luka thought, there wouldn't be anyone to comfort ... he didn't have anyone. How long had it been since he'd had anyone? His father? He would grieve, Luka knew, but he was so far away now. How often did he see or speak to him anymore? Whether Luka was in Chicago, or in the Congo ... or in a box in the ground beside Danijela, it would make no difference to Tata. But it would make a huge difference to him.  
  
The door opened. Gillian.  
  
"Could you at least knock?" Luka snapped. "Or am I not entitled to a little privacy?"  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"What do you want."  
  
"It's time for your morning care and vitals ... and breakfast."  
  
"I told Carter I didn't want breakfast."  
  
"Well, I still need to check your vitals, and you need some meds."  
  
"Whatever."   
  
Thankfully, Gillian didn't talk while she did what needed to be done, just quietly reported the numbers to him. When she was finished, Luka said, "Ok, you can go now."  
  
"You need to eat something."  
  
Luka took a deep breath. "Just leave the tray. I'll try to eat a little later. I'll ring when I'm done." He could stand up for himself. Calmly, without tears or tantrums.   
  
An endless silence, then Gillian finally nodded and said quietly, "Ok."   
  
Left alone once more, Luka looked at the tray. Carter had kept his word. It wasn't plantains and toast. It was cornmeal and toast. Just as bland, just as tasteless. Luka drank the strong, bitter coffee but, after picking at the tray for a while, gave up trying to eat any of the food. What was the point? What was the point in any of it?  
  
-----  
  
Angelique removed the bandage from Luka's leg, and he forced himself, again, to look at it. It was worse, there was no question. Not that it really mattered of course. Nothing really mattered. It only mattered because, as long as it wasn't better, he was stuck in bed, helpless.   
  
"Can you wiggle your toes for me?" asked Angelique.  
  
Luka tried ... willed his foot to move, and was rewarded by a slight movement in his toes, and a disproportionate amount of pain shooting through his calf. "Good," said Angelique. "That's good."  
  
"When can I get up?" asked Luka, remembering his question to Carter of the previous night.   
  
Angelique kept her eyes on her work, and avoided the question. "You're going home in a few days, Luka. The surgeons in Chicago ... maybe they'll be able to do something more. I'm not a specialist; an orthopedic surgeon."  
  
"I just want to be able to get out of bed ... use crutches ... even a wheelchair."  
  
"Your left arm is still very weak from the dislocation. You still have 10 rib fractures that aren't fully healed. You're still severely anemic from the blood loss and malaria. I'm sorry, Luka, but it just isn't realistic. Not yet. You're going to have to be patient."  
  
"I'm going crazy ... just lying here ..."  
  
"I know, Luka. It's hard. But you _are_ going home soon." She picked up his chart and flipped over a few pages. "Or you will be, if you start eating something." She shook her head. "You aren't eating, Luka. You aren't going to be strong enough to travel if you don't start eating more. I can't put you on a 25 hour flight if you're starving yourself to death."  
  
"I try, Angelique," Luka whispered. "I just can't."  
  
"Well, you have to try harder."  
  
She finished cleaning and packing his leg, then left him to rest again.  
  
---- 


	21. Chapter 21

He was screaming. Again. He was asleep. He knew he was asleep, but he could hear himself screaming. It wasn't even dreams -- no clear images, no memories, just terror ... anguish ... agony. And he couldn't stop screaming, trying to fight something that wasn't there at all.   
  
Then there _was_ something there, hands on him, holding him down. _Oh God ..._. "No! No!"  
  
"Luka! Luka, it's ok..."  
  
And he was, somehow awake again, and Carter was there, and breath tore raggedly in his lungs. "I ... I'm awake ... " gasped Luka. "I'm ok."  
  
"Need something for the pain?" Luka could see the concern in Carter's eyes, and it seemed to burn him.  
  
"I said no! I said I was ok." Luka shut his eyes. Carter had to leave. Why wouldn't he leave? He shuddered as Carter touched him gently, then, after what felt like a lifetime, rose.  
  
"Ring if you do need anything," he said, and left Luka alone again.  
  
Sleep came again, and this time there _were_ dreams. Real dreams, as vivid as ever. Luka didn't scream, but he hadn't screamed then either, not really. He only moaned and cried, the tears in his dreams just as real as before, the pain and fear just as real. When was it going to stop? Hands holding him down; not that he could have moved, could have fought. Wrenching nausea.  
  
He couldn't bear it any longer, and woke up. He was wet. He was drenched in sweat. It was daytime, the room was hot. His hair clung to his neck, his forehead. But the dream was still too real. There was a different wetness. On his leg. On the sheet. _Oh God ... oh God ...._ the nausea deepened. He gagged. If he had eaten anything that day, if there had been anything at all in his stomach, he would have vomited. As it was, the sickness was enough to make him sit up; double over in pain. Oh God ....  
  
Somewhere, deep in his consciousness, he knew it didn't matter, didn't mean anything at all. It could have happened anytime, long before he'd even had the dream ... but the revulsion was overwhelming. The dream couldn't have made him feel ... made him react ...  
  
Luka clawed at the sheet, trying to scrub away the evidence. He was hyperventilating, gasping. Nobody could know ... God ... nobody could know. He was filthy ... repulsive ... He couldn't stand it, stand himself. He reached for the bell, almost knocking it to the floor in his haste, fighting to control his breathing, his nausea.  
  
Gillian opened the door. "What do you need, Luka?"   
  
"Some water..."  
  
"Is the pitcher empty?"  
  
"No ... for a bath ...."  
  
"You didn't want one earlier." Luka could hear the puzzlement in her voice. She _knew_ that something was wrong. She couldn't know. She couldn't.  
  
"I just need a bath."  
  
"All right. I'll get some water."  
  
It felt like hours before Gillian came back ... hours during which it was all Luka could do to not scrape at his skin with his own nails.  
  
She set the basin down on the bedside table and started to sit down. "It's pretty hot today. You look really warm. A bath will make you feel much better."  
  
"No!" Luka felt the revulsion welling up again. If she touched him, he knew he would scream.  
  
"You said you wanted ...."  
  
"I'll do it! Leave the water .... I'll ... I can do it myself."  
  
"I don't think you can."  
  
"Leave it, Gillian!" He was getting hysterical, gasping, fighting for control. "Just go away and leave me the water. I'll ring when I'm done."   
  
"Ok," Gillian said finally. "But if you need help..."  
  
"Go!" and Gillian fled.  
  
Luka was shaking violently. He managed, somehow, to get his gown untied. The water was warm ... he could barely hold onto the sponge. But he had to get himself clean. He was filthy ... filthy ... could hardly stand to touch himself, even with the sponge between his hand and body.   
  
He scrubbed desperately; could feel hysteria increasing every second. He couldn't get clean. The sponge was only spreading the filth, making things worse. Sobs tore at his throat, sweat ran down his temples and neck. He used both hands -- his left arm, still tender and sore, throbbed with the effort, but the pain seemed far away. All that mattered was getting clean, but he couldn't do it.  
  
It was the sheet, that was it. The sheet was filthy. He shoved it away, onto the floor, but the sheet beneath him was also soiled, or was it soiled from just being in contact with his body at all? Anything that touched him would be dirty ... perhaps that was why nobody wanted to be near him?  
  
He was out of water. He needed more water. He could ring, but he was naked. The sheet, his gown, were both on the floor, not that he could bear to touch them again anyway. They couldn't see him naked. Oh God ... what was he going to do?  
  
A tap on the door. A voice. "Luka? Do you need some help?" A male voice, cheerful. Laughing at him? "Luka, you've made a real mess here!" Hands on him! Oh God ... hands on him, holding him down! He was naked.  
  
And he was screaming. But his arms weren't tied now. When had they freed his arms? He could fight them now! They weren't going to do it ... he could fight them ... but he couldn't stop screaming, and they were still trying to hold him, to hurt him ...  
  
"Gillian! Get me five of Versed. Now!" The words didn't seem to mean anything.  
  
"We don't have any ..."  
  
"Some kind of sedation then! Anything we have!"  
  
Then a different voice, a softer voice, and different hands on him, smaller, gentler, but still holding him with surprising strength, still pressing him down into the dirt ... or was it mud? Whatever was beneath him was wet ... and he was still trying to fight, still screaming, sobbing.  
  
"Luka! Luka, listen to me. Nobody is going to hurt you. Nobody wants to hurt you. But you have to settle down. We can't let you hurt yourself. Do you understand me? Luka, you have to calm down. If you don't, we'll have to restrain you. I don't want to have to do that. I don't want to have to put you in restraints, but we can't let you hurt yourself."  
  
The words penetrated Luka's consciousness, his terror. Restraints. God ... no ... not restraints. They were going to tie him down. He wouldn't be able to fight. They would be able to ... no ...  
  
"Please ...." he managed to gasp out, between the sobs. "No .... "  
  
"Then you have to try and calm down. You are safe here. Nobody is going to hurt you. Never again. I promise."  
  
The hands slowly relaxed their grip. He was no longer restrained. He could flee, but his limbs were too weak, and pain was tearing through his body again. But he could see, and it was Angelique sitting beside him, her eyes as calm as ever. "That's it," she went on quietly. "Just be nice and quiet. Slow breaths." And to Gillian. "Let's get him some dry bedding and a gown." She smiled at him. "We're going to make you comfortable again, Luka, then you're going to sleep."  
  
Luka shuddered. He knew she hadn't given him any sedation, any drugs, but exhaustion was pulling at him, dragging into blackness again. "Dirty ..." he whispered between sobs. "So dirty ..." 


	22. Chapter 22

Luka opened his eyes. His first sense was that he had been asleep for a long time. He couldn't remember having dreamed, but he was sure he had. He always dreamed. He couldn't remember having dreamed, but could remember, with rapidly growing horror, a worse, waking nightmare. Himself screaming, out of control; fighting Carter, fighting Angelique, ripping out his IV in his mindless panic. The memory was enough to make him shudder, make his next breath catch, almost turn into a sob.  
  
"Luka?" Carter's voice, quiet.  
  
"I'm ok now." He managed to keep his voice from shaking. "I won't do that again." But he knew, even as said it, that he couldn't promise that. He knew that, if the terror hit him again, he would lose control, he would scream. And much worse. And Carter would see, and Gillian. Just thinking about it made his breathing quicken, made sweat break out on his neck. Calm. Stay calm. 'If you can't calm down, I'll have to put you in restraints.' Angelique had said. "You ... ummm ... don't have to stay with me."  
  
"Yeah, I do." Carter's voice was still quiet. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Please, Carter. I'd rather be alone. I won't ... I'll be ok."  
  
"Just for a while. Until we're sure you're feeling a little better."  
  
"I'm fine now." Betraying his words, hysteria was starting to edge his voice again. He had to stay calm, and the longer Carter stayed, the less likely it was that he'd be able to do that. Even if he didn't talk at all.  
  
"I know you are. You're just having a rough time. It _is_ normal. What you're feeling; experiencing ...."  
  
"You don't know what I'm feeling." Luka was still fighting for control. "Please, Carter. I'd just rather be alone. You don't have to watch me. If you hear anything that worries you, you can check on me ... I just don't want you here all the time."  
  
Carter looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Ok. Is there anything you need?"  
  
"No. Just to be left alone."  
  
"You also need to be eating," Carter reminded him gently. "Starving yourself isn't helping matters at all."  
  
"I'm not starving myself."  
  
"You aren't eating. It amounts to the same thing. Someone will be bringing you some dinner soon. You _need_ to eat it."  
  
Luka didn't answer. There was nothing he could say that would make a difference. And, finally, Carter left him alone again.  
  
He didn't cry. He didn't really want to cry. He felt almost numb. What was happening to him? He remembered again the overwhelming terror that had come over him, taken control of him -- just as the Mai Mai had controlled him, held him. No ... he wasn't going to think that way. It was better to be numb. He _could_ fight this. It was only thoughts -- feelings. He could control them, if he really tried. The terror might tear him apart, eat away at him ... but it wouldn't control him. And nobody would ever again have to see the pain it was causing him. That much he knew he could do. No one would ever have to know again.  
  
And he could get stronger. He _would_ get stronger. He knew that Carter was right about that. If he wanted to get stronger, be able to go home ... escape from this hell, he had to start to eat.  
  
---  
  
Luka did try. For the next few days he tried to eat the meals they brought him, fighting the nausea, knowing that it had no physical cause. He tried to fight the sense of growing despair and hopelessness that haunted him. He tried to be civil to Gillian and Carter, while also trying to keep them out of his room as much as he could. Because he knew that, for all his efforts, they knew what was happening to him. When they looked at him he could see the worry, his own fear reflected in their eyes.   
  
Still, they all talked of his going home 'soon', though Angelique would not name a day. And Gillian talked of being with him when he went home, of plans for being together when he was home, and well again. And the idea horrified him beyond imagining.  
  
For all his efforts, Luka knew that it really made no difference. The strain of trying to keep his emotions under control, was draining his strength, leaving him nearly weak as ever. While he could maintain some small semblence of control during his waking hours, nightmares still filled every instant of his sleep, forcing him to relive, a dozen times in each 24 hours, the worst moments of the horror; worse, in a way, than when they had happened, because he now had to know, even as he dreamed, that the only possible escape from the horror and pain, death, would never be allowed him. He still screamed and talked and cried in his sleep; and Gillian and Carter couldn't help but hear. The walls were just too thin. No matter how tightly he shut the doors, the walls were just too thin.  
  
And while he was, in fact, beginning to gain back some small bit of physical strength, it wasn't enough to make any real difference. He still couldn't get out of bed, still couldn't do anything for himself, still had to endure the touches and the "help" of others for his most private and intimate needs. And the agony and humiliation of that, of having to accept help, or worse, having to ask for it, was, in it's own way, almost the worst part of all. 


	23. Chapter 23

Luka drifted awake. It was nighttime. Everything was quiet. Not much pain. His leg was a bit better that day, Angelique had said. Just the usual dreams. But no more panic attacks. His mouth was dry, he felt a little feverish. Luka could sit up now without help ... he was getting stronger. He poured himself a cup of water and drank. He had to go to the bathroom; he knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep until he did.   
  
He reached for the bell -- God, he still hated this part of it so much. Why couldn't he get up and walk... just to the bathroom? Maybe he could. He was getting stronger. And the bathroom wasn't very far. He knew it was just outside, the room right next to his. It wasn't so far to go. His room was small ... he could hold onto the bed, and the chair. That would get him as far as the door. He could do it, he _knew_ he could. He wasn't hysterical. He wasn't out of control. He was going to do something that he knew he could do. And if, when he started to try, he found that it was too hard, he would stop.  
  
He still had an IV. He wouldn't get far with the IV in his arm; the stand wasn't portable. Luka detached the tubing from the catheter in his arm and clamped it off so it wouldn't drip. He pushed the sheet off his legs -- didn't look at them, and took a deep breath, which still stabbed into his lungs. But he was getting better. He could do this. Once he was standing, it would just be a few steps to the door, and once out in the hall, there would be someone to help him if he needed it. At that point, it would be no farther to help him to the bathroom than to help him back to his bed. They would have to let him try.  
  
Luka got his good leg over the side of the bed. He'd done this before ... they had let him dangle it a few times during the last several days, as part of his exercise. His foot found the floor, he planted it. A little weak, a little shaky, but not bad. Then he slid the right leg off the bed. It hadn't hurt much before, but now the pain took his breath away. It was like he'd slid it through a bath of flames.   
  
When he could breathe again, he grabbed the edge of the bed firmly for support, and tried to rise. And nothing happened. His left knee wouldn't straighten. Then, after a moment, the muscles remembered what they were supposed to do, and he was suddenly standing -- shakily, but he was doing it. Luka almost laughed, despite the pain. How could such a simple thing be so exciting? How had he been able to take it for granted for so long?  
  
Holding the bed; he just had to make it to the foot of the bed, and then it would be, perhaps, just one step between the end of the bed and the doorknob; he managed to half hop, half shuffle, one step, then two. One more. He was drenched in sweat, he was exhausted. He knew he should sit down, rest, get his breath back before continuing. But he knew if he stopped now, gave up now, he wouldn't find the strength to get up again. "Come on, Kovac ... you can do this," he whispered out loud ... and the words seemed to use up the last bit of strength he had, because his knee suddenly buckled. He tried to grab at the bed, to keep his balance, but the sheet slipped under his grasp and he fell. He managed to fall forward, and he landed on the bed, but then he slid ... slipped ... and there was unbearable pain ripping through his right leg, and he was somehow on the floor. He heard himself scream, and he was ashamed. Ashamed because he had failed again, and because the pain had made him scream.   
  
A tap on the door penetrated the roaring in his ears. Gillian's voice, saying "Luka, are you ... oh my God ..."  
  
It took several orderlies to get him back into bed. Luka was powerless to help at all. He was exhausted, his muscles had turned to water, and he was drowning in pain again. When he was finally settled back into bed, and morphine had dulled the worst of the agony, Carter asked gently, "What happened, Luka?"  
  
"I fell out of bed ... must have been having a nightmare." Luka said. He couldn't tell them that he had failed, that he had been too weak. But he knew that Carter knew. He had seen the IV tubing, had known that Luka must have detached it. They would always know.  
  
When Angelique came by a short time later to check his leg, her face was uncharacteristically grim. "You didn't do yourself any favors, Luka."  
  
"I thought I could..."  
  
"You could have at least asked for help. Did you really think you could walk by yourself after being down for almost 3 weeks, compound fractures aside?"  
  
"Would you have given me help if I'd asked?"  
  
"No, I would have told you to stay in bed," Angelique admitted with a trace of a smile, then she was serious again. "It looks like you ripped out a bunch of sutures, tore a ligament in your knee, and your fever has spiked to 39.5. Probably opened an abcess or two. Without going in, I can't tell for sure what other damage you might have done. Your ribs don't look too happy either after your little stunt. You're lucky you didn't recollapse your lung."  
  
"Don't you need to operate anyway ... to repair the sutures, and the ligament?"  
  
Angelique suddenly looked very, very tired. "Lets just watch it for a day or two ... see how you do. We got some new antibiotics in on the last Red Cross shipment. They should do a good job on the infection." A momentary hesitation. "I don't want to subject you to any more surgeries than necessary. If we can control this with antibiotics, you should still be able to go home in a few days. Then the surgeons in Chicago can repair the damage you did. If I have to start cutting again, it'll be at least another week before you'd be stable enough to travel, and you'll still need more surgery after you get there. Are you ok with that?"  
  
"Yeah."   
  
"Good." Angelique managed to smile again. "And you stay in bed from now on; do I make myself clear?"  
  
Luka just shut his eyes and nodded. What answer could he give? 


	24. Chapter 24

When he woke again, the room seemed dim. It was night. But Angelique was there, and Carter. They were talking quietly. Fever was making the room swim. He was hot. And his leg throbbed unbearably.Fluid rattled in his lungs, making him want to cough, but pain stabbed at his chest when he took a deep breath.   
  
"Angelique", Carter said softly, nodding towards him.  
  
"Ok. Go have them prep the OR. We'll be down in a few minutes." She sat beside him. "Luka, can you hear me?"  
  
"Yeah... I'm thirsty."  
  
"I know. You're running a pretty high fever right now. But you can't have anything to drink." She paused. "Your leg is much worse, Luka. The infection is spreading again. The antibiotics just aren't doing the trick."  
  
Luka nodded, keeping his eyes on a corner of the ceiling.   
  
"Well," Angelique continued quietly, "There is really nothing more we can do to treat it, except to amputate. We need to get you down to the OR and I'll take the leg. I'm sorry, Luka, I did try ... but it was longshot from the start. If it had been anyone else, I would have amputated immediately. And it isn't your fault. The fall didn't make any real difference, just means that we have to do it a little sooner rather than later."  
  
"No." Luka's voice was dull, but firm.  
  
"Luka, I know it's a hard thing to think about, to accept. And maybe I was wrong to have kept your hopes up as long as I did. I was a bit of a coward -- I hoped that I could let the surgeons in Chicago give you the bad news. But it's not going to be as bad as it sounds. I'll amputate about halfway up the thigh -- with a prosthesis you should have good function; you won't be running marathons, but you'll be able to walk. As much damage and tissue loss as there is already, you'll probably have better function and less residual pain..."  
  
"I said no!"   
  
A sigh. "There's no other option here, Luka. If I don't amputate, the infection will continue to spread, you will become septic and you will die."  
  
"Which is an option." Angelique felt his forehead, and Luka flinched. "I am perfectly lucid, Angelique. I am competent to make my own decisions, and I do not want the surgery."  
  
"You'd rather die than lose your leg?"  
  
"I don't want it. You will not amputate my leg."  
  
"Can you tell me why?"  
  
Luka shut his eyes wearily and shook his head. He couldn't tell her, couldn't explain. He didn't even fully understand it himself. He just knew that it felt like the right decision, the only decision he could make. It couldn't be any other way.  
  
Angelique was still pushing. "Is it the assault ... the HIV? I know you're still struggling ..."  
  
"No, it has nothing to do with that."  
  
"So you just want to die?"  
  
"No... I don't want to die. But you will not amputate my leg, and I understand that the outcome will be my death." He looked at her calmly. "Now ... since I'm not having surgery, you don't have to keep me NPO. So can I have a drink of water?"  
  
Angelique just looked at him for a moment, then sighed and filled the cup. After he had finished it, Luka asked softly, "How long?"  
  
"Luka, I'm asking you to reconsider."  
  
"How much time do I have?"  
  
Angelique shrugged. "Without surgery, a few days. You'll probably be septic within 24 to 36 hours. Once that happens ... hours, maybe days. You're also developing pneumonia again. Probably bruised your lungs, or got a little blood in them when you fell."  
  
"Ok." Luka nodded and shut his eyes again. "I just ... wanted to know."  
  
He felt a hand on his arm and Angelique said gently, "We'll see that you don't suffer."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"But if you change your mind..."  
  
"You'll be the first to know." Luka heard Angelique's footsteps leave the room. He was alone again. He took a trembling breath, aware that he was shaking a little bit. He could do this ... face this. He had faced death before, under far worse circumstances. And this was what he wanted.   
  
No -- he admitted. Not what he wanted, what he had chosen. He was going to face death on his own terms.   
  
Outside in the hall he heard quiet voices. Angelique and Carter, talking. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying though, until Carter's voice came through the door.  
  
"Why the _hell_ not!?" -- and then the door opened. 


	25. Chapter 25

"Hey, Luka," Carter said. "What's going on?"  
  
"I'm tired," Luka said. "Can we talk later?"  
  
"No... we can_not_ talk later. What are you ...?" Carter shook his head. "Angelique says that you are refusing surgery."  
  
"That's right. It's my decision."  
  
"You're going to die, rather than lose a leg? Damn stupid decision, if you ask me."  
  
"I didn't ask you," Luka said. "But it isn't about the leg."  
  
"Then what? You're just giving up? After all this time, you're just going to give up?" Luka didn't answer. "We went to an awful lot of trouble to rescue you, y'know ... and save your life."  
  
A bitter laugh. "So it's about you? I don't recall asking you to rescue me ... save me."  
  
"You were fighting, Luka. You were obviously fighting. To have been alive after all that time...."  
  
"That's what you think? Do you have _any_ idea what I went through out there? What it was like?"  
  
"I think I have a fair idea," said Carter quietly. "I found you, remember? I saw what kind of shape you were in."  
  
"I lay there for days ... And all I did was try to die. I begged God to let me die ... to take me away from the pain ... let me be with Danijela and my kids again ... or ... if He couldn't do that, just let it end. And I tried so hard to die.  
  
"But you know what, Carter? You can't do it. You can't make yourself die. No matter how unbearable ... how horrible life is, you can't make it end -- you can't will your heart to stop beating. My body wouldn't ... die ... and God never heard me ... never listened ... never ended it for me. I wasn't really alive anymore... what I was ... enduring ... wasn't life ... it was just pain -- darkness -- hell -- but I couldn't stop ... existing."  
  
"Ok, Luka. But that was before. In your place, I'm sure I would have wanted the same. But that part's over. It was hell -- but it's over, and, for whatever reason, you _did_ survive it. So why give up now? I just don't understand."  
  
"You don't have to. It's my life, not yours."  
  
"And after you are dead, I will have to bring your body home. I'm going to have to tell your father how and why you died. I'm going to have to tell everyone at County. I'm going to have to tell Abby. What am I supposed to tell them?"  
  
"Sepsis. Angelique tells me it will be sepsis. Shock, I expect." A fairly easy death, Luka thought.   
  
"Luka..." Carter's voice broke. "Explain this to me. Because I still don't get it. Why are you so eager to die?"  
  
"I don't want to die. If I could live ... I would."  
  
"But you do understand that that is what is going to happen. That you can survive with surgery, but will die without it."  
  
"Yes, I understand that."  
  
"Because you don't want to lose your leg?"  
  
"No. I told you. It isn't about the leg." A breath. "It's because it's my choice. It isn't about my leg. Or my life. It's about ... being able to make a choice. For myself. I need to be able to choose -- make a decision on my own terms.   
  
"All that time at Matenda ... things happened to me. I couldn't control anything. They had ... absolute power over me ... whether I lived or died ... how much I suffered ... everything that happened to me. You have no idea what it was like ... what they took from me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't ever get that back, Carter. Never." Luka steadied himself and went on. "And after the Mai Mai left ... all those days, waiting to die ... knowing that it would happen ... that it had to happen ... but I couldn't make it happen. I couldn't do anything to save myself ... but I couldn't do anything to make myself die, either. And since I've been here ... it hasn't been any better. Everyone still ... chooses for me. Everyone, and everything still controls me. And I'm still ... not alive. As long as this continues to control me, I'm never going to anything but exist. I can't let this control me anymore... I need to be able to choose what I want to do."  
  
"So choose. You can just as easily choose to have the surgery. Is it because Angelique told you that you needed it? If she'd asked you, would that have been different?"  
  
Luka had to think about that one. "No... that's part of it... but not all. I _don't_ want to lose my leg -- because if I do, it will continue to control me -- everytime I see it ... the stump, or the prosthesis, I will remember it ... I'll never be able to forget. I can't face that. I thought ... before .... that I could face anything. But I learned that I can't. There are some things I'm just not strong enough -- I can't do. I'm strong enough to die ... but I can't do that." He sighed. "I don't expect you to understand, Carter. I hope you'll never have to understand."  
  
Carter was silent for a minute. "You're right, Luka. I don't understand. Maybe I can't." He sighed. "But if you're sure ..."  
  
Luka managed a smile. He had won this one. Of course he had to win. Carter could try to argue with him all day, but the final choice was his. Without his consent, Angelique could not operate, and he knew her well enough to know that she would not try to over-ride his wishes.   
  
He closed his eyes. He was exhausted. Physically, emotionally. His fever was climbing, his leg ached unbearably. He'd ask Angelique to give him something for the pain. She had promised him it wouldn't have to hurt.   
  
The pain would be over soon. He just wanted the pain to be over. He opened his eyes again. Carter was still sitting by the bed. He wasn't crying, but pain and grief were clear in his eyes. "Could I get a little more morphine?" he asked. "It hurts."  
  
"Yeah. Absolutely." Carter got up and started for the door.   
  
"Carter," Luka said quickly. "I don't ... I'm not doing this to hurt you; to hurt anyone. I just ... I can't do it anymore. I look ahead, and all I see is more pain. I just want it to be over. I know that you thought you were doing the best thing ... but it would have been best, I think, if you'd just held my hand ... waited for me to die. I don't think I was suffering by then, by the time you found me."  
  
"No," Carter said softly. "You weren't." 


	26. Chapter 26

It was in the early evening hours that the chills hit, waking him from a restless sleep. Luka could feel the heat radiating from his skin, even as cold shook him to the bone. He knew what it meant. Chills. Fever. Sepsis. And, very soon, death. He opened his eyes. Carter was there.  
  
"How ' you doing there, Luka?"  
  
"I'm cold."  
  
"Concern flickered across Carter's face. He brushed his hand over Luka's forehead, pretending to brush the damp hair back, but Luka knew he was checking his temperature. "I'll get you another blanket."  
  
"Carter ...."  
  
"I'll just be a minute. You'll be more comfortable when you're a little bit warmer."  
  
It was hard to talk. The chills were shaking him deeply, and it seemed hard to breathe.   
  
Surely he was imaging that. It couldn't be happening that fast. Angelique had said he had pneumonia. That must be it. "I don't ... want to be alone... that was the only hard part ... before ... I didn't want to ... have to die alone."  
  
"You won't be alone. I'll be right back with that blanket, I promise." But then Carter hesitated a moment. Luka knew that this was much harder on Carter than it was on him ... but then death usually was, wasn't it? Harder on the ones left behind? "Luka, do you want the chaplain?"  
  
"Why?" Luka was confused. All those days he hadn't really wanted Carter there. Hadn't wanted anyone there. But now, he thought, someone familiar ... that was what he wanted, to make it all a little easier. And to not be alone anymore.   
  
"Last Rites?" A beat. "You aren't going to be alert much longer ... so it should be soon if you want that."  
  
Luka started to shake his head, then stopped as the movement made him dizzy and vaguely nauseous. "No ... I'm ready. Just ... a blanket."   
  
Carter hurried out, and Luka shut his eyes again. Where had God been when he had been afraid and in pain? He didn't need Him now ... now that he was going to die easily, and at peace. But then Luka hesitated. He wasn't afraid, not really. He _was_ ready. But somehow ... the idea of it seemed to comfort him even more. Maybe the sacrament would help bring him to Danijela? Or maybe it would just make things easier. Or maybe it would make no difference, but he wouldn't know if he didn't try. And there was also one other thing he needed to do before he died.   
  
When Carter came back into the room, Luka said, "I think I do ..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Want ... the priest. Can't hurt ... right?"  
  
"Right." Carter smiled at him. "I'll go get someone to track him down."  
  
"And ... find Gillian ... I need to ... tell her something."  
  
Gillian was there in a few moments. She'd been crying, Luka could tell.  
  
"I'm sorry ... Gillian. I said some ... terrible things to you. Wasn't ... your fault ... anything you did."  
  
"I know. You were in pain. Pain makes us do things ... say things ..." Gillian wiped at her eyes.  
  
"Forgive me?" It really was getting hard to breathe.   
  
Gillian could only nod as a fresh wave of tears came, and then there was a tap on the door, and the priest was there.  
  
When, a little while later, Luka slipped into a warm and drowsy haze of fever and morphine, he knew that he was not going to wake again. But it was ok. His time with Father Francois had brought him far more comfort than he had expected. He had been forgiven by God, and by Gillian and Carter. There was no pain, and he wasn't alone.   
  
He drifted in and out of the haze for what seemed like a very long time. He was hot, pushing off the blankets, and there was a cool, damp cloth on his forehead -- he was thirsty; he heard his voice, faint and rasping, asking for water, and someone held a cup to his lips and encouraged him to drink. Voices spoke to him, low and comforting, though he couldn't seem to understand the words -- except once he seemed to hear a voice ... was it Gillian? ... crying ... and saying "You can try! Just do it ... he'll be angry at first, but he'll thank you later ... I know he will!" and then another voice saying "It's too late for that. Surgery won't make any difference now." And he was drowning. Someone was holding him under icy water, and he was freezing cold --- and he was drowning.   
  
Then, for a very long time, there seemed to be nothing at all except the occassional, dim awareness that he would be with Danijela again, very soon. And he wasn't afraid. Through it all, he was never afraid.   
  
------  
  
Carter startled awake, and was furious with himself. Why had he fallen asleep? His watch said 5:30; nearly dawn. He had been asleep for at least a couple of hours. He had promised Luka he would stay with him, be with him, until it was over. And if Luka had died while he slept ....  
  
The room was quiet. Was it the silence that had wakened him? Luka was quiet on the bed, very still. Earlier in the night he had been, briefly, restless; struggling, fighting a losing battle for air. Then he had grown quiet again, and had been resting easily when Carter too had drifted off to sleep. His hand, Carter still clasped it firmly even while he had slept, seemed cooler. And his face was slack, calm. He had gone ... peacefully ... Carter thought. Then there was a faint rattling sound as Luka drew another shallow breath. His lungs were full of fluid; between the pneumonia and the sepsis, he was drowning. At home, of course, he would have been intubated, put on a vent, supported vigerously. But here, they couldn't intubate. Even oxygen was too scarce to give to a dying patient, they saved it for those who had a chance. Luka was still getting antibiotics, and they'd given him lasix to try and relieve some of the pulmonary edema, ease the oppressive sense of suffocation, but it was the morphine that mattered most. He wasn't in pain. He hadn't died yet, not quite yet, but he would very soon. It had been over 48 hours, he couldn't last much longer. His pressure was too low, his fever was too high. He wasn't getting enough oxygen.   
  
"I'm still here, Luka. Everything's ok." He reached up to smooth the hair back from Luka's forehead, and he flinched. He'd expected the skin to be hot. Luka's fever had been extremely high all day, resisting all attempts to bring it down, to make him a little more comfortable. But now his forehead was pale, damp, and little hotter than Carter's own hand. Carter felt Luka's cheek, his neck. The skin there too was very damp, sweat had pooled in the hollow of his throat, but cool. And now that Carter took the time to actually listen, he noticed that Luka's breathing sounded better. His lungs still rattled, but he was taking slow, deep breaths now, rather than the rapid shallow ones sympomatic of septic shock and respiratory failure. Almost afraid to listen, Carter put his stethoscope into his ears, and listened to Luka's chest. He was wheezing; there was fluid and blood in the bronchi, he still had pneumonia of course. But the lungs were no longer so wet, the edema was almost gone. And his heart beat was strong and steady.   
  
Slowly, his hands shaking, Carter folded the stethoscope and draped it around his shoulders. He looked at Luka for a long moment, then took the washcloth and gently wiped the sweat from his face. Luka stirred slightly. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open, and, after a moment, he was still again, breathing quietly. He was asleep.  
  
"That's right," Carter said softly. "You just sleep now. You've earned it."  
  
----  
  
"Luka? Luka can you hear me?" Who was calling him? He felt he should know the voice ... but he didn't seem to know anything. His body felt strange. No pain, just an odd heaviness, like gravity was weighing on him with three or four times its normal force. He couldn't move. Was he dead? He was supposed to die. He remembered that. He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts on very much ... remember very much ... everything seemed misty ... strange ... but he remembered that.  
  
"Come on, Luka. It's time to open your eyes." The voice came again. He was breathing. He could feel himself breathing ... it took enormous effort to fill his lungs ... there was still the uncomfortable sensation that he was drowning, breathing water ... but if he was breathing, he wasn't dead. So he should be able to open his eyes. Luka tried. The lids seemed to be made of lead, but after several tries, he got them open. His hospital room, in Kisangani. The light was dim. Night. And Carter, saying "Open your eyes, Luka. It's time to wake up. You've slept long enough." and then, as he succeeded in doing so, "That's right. That's good."  
  
Luka's mouth was pasty; parched. And his tongue was as heavy as his eyes had been. But he managed to rasp out "What? and the word made him choke and cough. He hoped that Carter would know what he was asking, since any further speech was impossible.  
  
"Your fever broke early this morning. I don't know how you did it, but you fought again, and you won." Carter was smiling, a smile that seemed to light not only his face, but the entire room.  
  
His leg. Luka felt a distant ache now ... but maybe he was imaging it. He tried to drag his hand across the bed, to check. Where had Angelique said she would cut? Would he be able to tell if the leg was still there? Carter gently put his own hand over Luka's stopping the movement.  
  
"You still have your leg, Luka. I promise."  
  
Overwhelming drowsiness. Luka could scarcely hold his eyes open. The effort of moving his hand had exhausted him completely. But he murmured, "I want ... to go home..."   
  
As his eyes fell shut he saw Carter smile again, and as he slid back into sleep, he heard him say "Soon, Luka. Just as soon as you're a little bit stronger." 


	27. Chapter 27

When Luka woke again it was to bright sunshine through the window, and Gillian giving him a bath (her happy tears mixing with the water in the basin). He was still too weak to move, almost too weak to speak. Simply breathing seemed to take every bit of strength he possessed. 'You fought again, and you won.' He remembered Carter's words. He hadn't wanted to fight, but he had. His body had been stronger than he could have thought possible. He had been strong enough; brave enough. And he had won. And he was glad.  
  
Gillian saw that his eyes were open. "Hey ... good morning."  
  
" 'morning."  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
"Tired ..." This was nothing new, thought Luka, though the depths of fatigue were beyond what he could remember having felt before. But something else _was_ new. "And hungry..."  
  
"After we finish here, I'll find you something to eat."  
  
Luka knew that he was too weak to sit up; too weak to hold a spoon, much less lift it to his mouth. Gillian would have to feed him. But somehow, the idea didn't bother him now, at least not very much.  
  
"Get something good..." he murmured, and slid back into sleep -- and then someone was shaking him and saying "Luka! Suppertime."  
  
Luka opened his eyes. Gillian was there again ... or still? No, it must be again. She had a tray with food on it, and the room was dim again. How much time had passed?  
  
"What is it?" he managed to ask, as Gillian slipped a few pillows behind his shoulders.  
  
"I'm afraid the kitchen couldn't oblige with 'something good,' today. You'll have to settle for rice porridge."  
  
"We could ... send out for BBQ ..." Luka said hopefully. "Carson's delivers...."  
  
"Eat this, and maybe tomorrow we'll do BBQ," Gillian said. She was still smiling at him, but her smile looked different now ... felt different. She was the same, but he had changed.   
  
How could he have changed so much? What had happened to him while he had been unconscious, while he had been fighting for his life? Was it just because he had discovered that he had, within himself, the strength to win over death? Or because he had made the decision -- the choice, at the very last -- to put it all into God's hands, to _let_ Him decide? He remembered Father Francois speaking to him not of death, but of healing, and finding so much comfort in that; knowing that whatever happened to his body, he _would_ somehow, be able to find healing for his spirit. He had chosen to let God heal him, he just hadn't expected that it would have happened in quite this way.  
  
Gillian interrupted his thoughts gently. "Hey, I thought you were hungry." She was holding the spoon, waiting for him, and Luka opened his mouth obediently. He was famished. All the previous week, fever and pain and depression had taken away his appetite. No wonder he was so weak, he thought. He must be nearly starved. How long had it been since he'd had a real meal? Even the porridge (plain rice, seasoned only with salt, overcooked and thin and soupy to make it easy for the patients to digest) tasted good now.  
  
Gillian was scraping the bottom of the bowl for him when the door opened and Angelique looked in. "Ah, Gillian told me you were awake. I've been too busy to check on you until now. Feeling well?"  
  
"I'm alive," Luka said. And, for the first time in a very long time, the words made him smile.  
  
"I don't know how, but you are alive. You _are_ pretty tough."  
  
"My leg's ok?"  
  
"It's looking very good. You still have a long way to go -- I wouldn't plan on dancing on the plane on the way home, but the infection has just about cleared. Your temperature has been normal for over 24 hours now. Your leg and your lungs both look good. Now you just need to get some strength back, and you'll be ready to go home."  
  
-----  
  
Luka's strength came back with frustrating slowness. He no longer felt very ill or in much pain, but the fight for his life had used all his strength. But he grew a little bit stronger every day. A week after he'd regained consciousness, Angelique let him sit in a chair for the first time. He still couldn't stand or walk -- he would probably need multiple surgeries before he'd be able to do that, but just being out of bed made him feel like he was, finally, starting to really get well.  
  
Four days later, Carter breezed into his room. "You're all set to go, Luka."  
  
"Go where?"  
  
"Home. That was the plan, was it not? In about 3 hours you leave for the airstrip, where you'll catch a plane to Kinshasa. From there, a medical transport plane will take you home to Chicago."  
  
"Me?" Luka didn't miss the pronoun. "Aren't you coming?"  
  
"Not just yet. Angelique needs doctors, so I told her I'd stay a while longer. But Gillian is going with you. You need a good nurse."  
  
Luka nodded. Home. He was going home. Away from this place. He'd come with such high hopes ... and things had started out so well ... then it had ended up being nothing but darkness. When he went home, would he ever really be able to leave it behind? He was doing better, but nightmares still plagued his sleep, would they ever stop? While he was starting to be able to face the future again, he still couldn't face the past without trembling -- and knowing that made the future that much harder to face. But he just said, "Thanks Carter ... for everything."  
  
Carter looked uncomfortable. "Sure, Luka. What are friends for?"  
  
A tap on the door and Angelique came in. "Did Dr. Carter give you the good news?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm going home."  
  
"Can you stand a little more?" Angelique's eyes were shining. "Or will the strain be too much for you?"  
  
"Bring it on. I'm tough ... or so you've told me."  
  
"We ran an HIV test on your blood draw from this morning. I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible. The test was negative. You'll still want to start the triple cocktail as soon as you get home, and test again in 6 months, but a negative test now is a very hopeful sign."  
  
Luka just nodded. "Thanks. That is good news." But he didn't feel this one. This was still too much a part of the hell ... the things he couldn't bear to think about."  
  
Angelique and Carter seemed to notice the sudden change in mood. Luka saw them look at each other. And the room was silent for a few awkward moments. Then Angelique said "Ok. You get some sleep. The trip is going to be tiring for you; best get as much rest as you can now. Gillian is packing. She'll be by to help you dress and pack in a couple of hours."  
  
"Sure ... thanks ..."   
  
They left him alone to rest, but Luka wasn't tired. He just looked around the room that had been his home for such a long time. He hadn't been out of it, except for his surgeries, since he'd arrived. And before that, he'd been -- Luka shuddered -- even now he could scarcely bear to think about Matenda. What would it be like to go home? He had changed, he knew that, in so many ways. What would things be like for him once he got back to Chicago? First there would be more time in the hospital ... more treatments, more long, slow recovery. Would he ever again be anything like the man he'd been before? No, he wouldn't be. There was no question of that. But what would he become? He had been broken, he knew that. Again. He would heal. Again. But could he ever be stronger at the broken places? Or would he just break again, that much more easily, the next time?  
  
A tap on the door and Gillian came in. "All set to go?"  
  
"I just need to dress. I think I can do it myself." Luka scratched a spot on his cheek. "And shave." He still hadn't shaved himself. They hadn't allowed it. But he could do it ... he knew he could.   
  
"I don't think you can get the pants on yourself, but see how you do with the rest," Gillian agreed. She picked out an outfit from the scanty pile of clothes by the bed. "And we're going to have to cut the right pant leg. It won't go over the splint if we don't."  
  
Gillian cut the leg on his khaki pants while Luka managed to get on his shirt unaided. It was, he couldn't help noticing, several sizes too big for him now. But he realized he couldn't even get the shorts on, let alone the pants. He couldn't bend or move his leg yet. He had to allow Gillian to help him but, unlike before, the assistance didn't bother him much. He knew that he could do what really mattered now.   
  
When he was dressed, Gillian quickly set up the shave kit for him; razor, water basin, soap and mirror. He was still a little shaky (well ... more than a little...) but he knew he could do it. Luka adjusted the angle on the mirror, then stopped -- transfixed. He suddenly realized that he had not seen himself, seen his face, since before Matenda -- before the horror. And the face that looked at him from the mirror was that of a stranger. The dark bristles of his beard stood out starkly against the deathly whiteness of his skin. The cheekbones were prominent and scars, one across his cheek, another across the top of his forehead, were vivid red. And his eyes ... My God ... he thought to himself ... if my eyes look like this now ... when I'm doing so well, comparatively ... what must they have looked like before? Haunted ... that was the only word he could think of. Or worse ... dead.   
  
He couldn't look any more. Luka closed his eyes and sank back against the pillow. "Can you do it, Gillian?"  
  
"Tired?"  
  
Luka just nodded. "Yeah." What had Angelique told him so many times? 'It's over. It's all over now.' But she was wrong. It wasn't over. It would be, someday, but not yet. Someday he would have his life back, but not today. Something to look forward to, he told himself. He would have bad days, but he'd also have good ones. And, eventually, the bad days would grow fewer, and the good days more frequent.   
  
He had survived. And he was alive. And he was going home. 


	28. Epilogue

Abby tapped on the closed door. "Come in?" The voice was a little hoarse, but familiar.  
  
Luka was sitting up in bed, channel surfing. "So, you decided to finally pay me a visit," he said, smiling.  
  
"I tried to come up earlier, Luka -- really I did. But we were swamped downstairs. I couldn't get away."  
  
Luka hit the power button on the remote, turning off the TV, and tossed it on the bed. "All those days in the hospital in Kisangani I was looking forward to coming back to County, where there are TV's in the rooms. TV's with cable ... dozens of channels. So I get here, and find that there _still_ isn't a damn thing worth watching." He grinned at her again, and Abby laughed, but she was studying his face. He was much too pale, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and the red marks of half-healed cuts and bruises showing up starkly against the pallor. He was very thin, the bones in his face showed, and the hospital gown hung on him, even more sack-like than usual. And, while his smile had been genuine; spontaneous and warm, it had not reached his eyes. His eyes startled her. There seemed to be a wall behind them, a darkness far deeper than could be explained by illness and fatigue. What had he seen? What was he hiding behind his eyes? (Carter had given them little information over the telephone, and the medical records that has accompanied him contained only basic medical information -- not that Abby had even seen those, of course. They had gone directly to the doctors who would be caring for Luka.) She had heard, long before today, of course, that he had been injured, ill. But she hadn't expected this. Not after a month's recuperation in the Congo.   
  
"It's so good to have you home again, Luka."   
  
"It's good to be home .... never thought I'd be looking forward to the food at County."  
  
"You need to eat a lot of it, I think. Whatever diet they had you on over there was a bit too extreme!" It was meant as a joke, of course, but pain flickered for an instant on Luka's face, lighting the darkness behind his eyes. A moment's awkward silence. "Any idea how long you'll have to stay? Before you're discharged, I mean, and get to _really_ go home.  
  
"A while yet; probably a couple of weeks at least. Ortho was down to see me this morning, took a bunch of pictures. I need more surgery on my leg -- the bone's still a real mess. It's not healing properly ... they need to rebreak and reset it ... a couple dozen pins and screws." A sigh, then he seemed to steady himself and smiled again. "But I start PT tomorrow."  
  
"No rest for the wicked?"  
  
Luka shrugged. "I need to start getting my strength back. I'm looking forward to it, really. I've been lying in bed doing nothing _way_ too long. We'll work on my upper body and my good leg -- I'm going to need those, because as soon as I can be up and getting around on crutches, Allenson says I should be able to go home." A pause. "I'm going to walk again, Abby." The fierce determination in his voice startled her. She hadn't realized there was any question. Could that have been the source of the haunted look in his eyes? The fear that he might never walk? "Allenson says I'll probably limp ... may need a crutch for a while even after the bones mend ... but I'm going to walk again."  
  
"Of course you will," Abby said quickly. "And if you need a crutch, you can just tell people that you're channeling Weaver."  
  
Another laugh that didn't quite touch the darkness in his eyes. "She was by to see me too. Acted so very thrilled to see me. It was a real good act."  
  
"Just wants you back to work soon. We've been real short on attendings with you and Carter away. And if Carter is still in Africa..."  
  
"He'll be home soon, Abby. I'm sure he misses you a lot."  
  
Abby shook her head. "Didn't he tell you? We didn't part on the best of terms. I think it's over. With a whimper rather than a bang, but this patient is definitely dead."  
  
"Sorry," Luka said. "I didn't know. We really didn't talk about home much." The door opened and Gillian came in. "Abby, this is ..."  
  
"We've met already," Abby interrupted. "Hi, Gillian."  
  
Gillian put several pill cups down on the tray table and swung it around in front of Luka. She filled a cup with water for him. "Your evening meds," she said. "You need to take them, then it's probably time to get some sleep. You look about wiped out. It's been a long day."  
  
"It's been a long month," Luka said softly.  
  
Abby was looking at the pills. She recognized most of them; antibiotics, antimalarials, iron tablets, a sleeping pill -- and the very familiar drugs that made up the Triple Cocktail. HIV treatment? Luka saw her looking at the pills, and quickly picked up the cups and dumped them into his hand.   
  
"I was ... I may have been exposed in the Congo. It's hard to avoid if you spend much time there. Infection rate's astronomical."  
  
"Needle stick?" asked Abby.  
  
Luka's response was a noncommittal shrug. He closed his eyes for a moment, but not before Abby saw, again, the flicker of pain break through the wall. Could this be what was worrying him? But he gathered himself and went on. "The first test was negative, but I'm still stuck with 6 months of pills and safe sex until we can be certain."  
  
"I'm sure you'll be fine," Abby said. "The conversion rate from needle sticks is really low, even without ARVs."   
  
Luka didn't answer. He swallowed the pills and began to play with the empty cups, arranging them in patterns on the tray. After a minute the silence became unbearable. Abby said, "Well, Gillian's right. You need to get some sleep. I'll come back and see you tomorrow, I promise."  
  
Luka was lying down again, the sleeping pill already seemed to be working. He shut his eyes. "Come early ..." he murmured. "I think I'm having surgery tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"Ok. Sleep well." Abby smiled at him, and at Gillian, and went out into the hall. Gillian followed her a moment later.  
  
"Luka looked really glad to see you," Gillian said brightly.   
  
"Yeah." Abby hesitated. "He looks like he's been through a lot."  
  
"He has been. It's been rough for him. He nearly died ... several times, but he fought his way back."  
  
"You were with him? All the time?" Abby hesitated, uncertain how to ask what she wanted to know. But Gillian seemed to guess.  
  
"Abby, it's not my place to tell you anything. Luka will tell you as much as he feels able ... as soon as he feels ready. Until then, just be there for him. He still has a long fight ahead of him ... in a lot of ways. He's going to need friends who care about him, and who don't ask too many questions."  
  
Abby managed to smile. "I think I can do that." She started down the hall, and was surprised to see Gillian following. "You aren't going to stay with him?"  
  
Gillian shook her head. "No. He doesn't like it... he doesn't like having people there while he sleeps. He has nightmares ... talks in his sleep."  
  
"But when he wakes up, he'll be confused ..."  
  
"Abby," Gillian said firmly. "It's what he wants. We have to respect that, if we want to get him back. Trust me on this one." Then she smiled. "Now, where's the cafeteria? I need some coffee. This jet lag is killing me."  
  
"The cafeteria coffee will kill you too. Try the Jumbo Mart across the street." Abby watched Gillian head for the elevator and hesitated, looking back towards Luka's room. Then she sighed and followed Gillian. She needed coffee too. No ... what she really needed was tequila, but she'd have to settle for coffee. She knew she wasn't going to be able to sleep, and it was going to be a long night. 


End file.
